


Threads of Eden

by thewingedthing



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Arno has no idea what he's in for, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, Reader-Insert, Superpowers, but I do, eventually, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 76,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewingedthing/pseuds/thewingedthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She loved drawing sunsets; there was something so sad about them. So mysterious. The death of the day, of light. The waltz of sun and moon, the growing darkness of the nighttime— she loved it. Basked in it, even. Evangeline saw La Bete’s legs come into view dimly, watched through glazed eyes as he drew back his heavy boot, and smiled. Curious thing, that her final thought before death would be of a sunset.<br/>"I suppose now I’m a sunset, in a way. How fucking corny."</p><p>A woman lost in time and the Assassin she saved. And you damn well better believe she tapped that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Une

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** I've decided to post a few of the songs I listened to whilst writing each chapter, I think it's a cool way to better immerse yourself in the story, if you're interested. 
> 
> \- Chapter Music:  
>  _* I Got You - Duke Dumont_  
>  _* Hello - Martin Solveig & Dragonette _  
> \- Morg
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"

"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to."

"I don't much care where –"

"Then it doesn't matter which way you go.”

― Lewis Carroll, _Alice in Wonderland_

 

**_September 25th, 2015._ **

“Waaaaaave!”

Her arms worked quickly, hands diving beneath the tumult, icy swell as her board sluiced its way through the chilly Pacific. Turning her head, Evangeline spotted the source of her mad paddling. Sparkling, sultry blue water crested upwards in a yawning crystalline sloop, frothing white as it bowed precariously, ready to break and rush forward at any moment. Already caught up in the rush of water, Riley and Everett were laughing as they paddled, muscular arms keeping pace with the movement of the swell. She pulled herself in beside Everett, giving herself a berth of ten feet before the familiar ripple of intuition and a sudden rush of water had her planting a hand on either side of the black surfboard and swinging her knees up under herself. Her feet followed swiftly after, one, two, and then she was flying across deep, undulating dark blue. Long wet hair clung stubbornly to her shoulders and back as Evangeline thundered towards shore, her eyes watering slightly. A salty tear slipped away to join with the sea as she twisted her lean body, angling her board upwards as she went backside, carving her way to the top of the wave’s crest before she was aerial. The rush of the sea came back to her as she landed, zigzagging her way gracefully towards the beach. Riley was there to meet her, his board floating behind him as he sat lazily in the shallows. Pushing his mop of dark hair from his eyes, he grinned as she swam up beside him.

“Was that shit not perfect?”

Eva snorted, fist bumping him. “Seriously thought it was gonna be an ankle buster, that thing was huge!”

“Yeah, you almost didn’t make it you idiot.”

Eva laughed, feeling the familiar tug on her ankle as a soft wave drug her board out behind her, a faint clunk sounding as it knocked against Riley’s. “Uh,” She squinted, eyes fighting the setting sun as they scanned the horizon. “Riley, where’s Everett?”

“Here.” Everett called, stumbling towards them, his board dragging dejectedly behind.

“You fucking barney!”

“Aw shut it Riley.”

“What?” Eva asked. “What the hell happened?”

“He fucking fell off his board as soon as he stood up. That’s what happened!” Riley cackled.

Everett huffed, rolling his eyes as he readjusted his shorts. “Like you haven’t done it a million times.” He muttered.

“Dude, did you see Eva’s rail grab?” Riley asked, ignoring the snappy remark. “That shit was sick. Eva, you didn’t tell us you’d been practicing.”

The bracelet on her forearm clinked as she stood, her eyes scanning the beach for their backpacks. “Yeah well, can’t let you two idiots on to my secrets before the competition, can I?” The sun had just hit the horizon line, meaning if she didn’t get out of the ocean immediately and get her butt to her jeep, she’d be late.

“Hey where are you going?” Everett called after her, Riley still sniggering at her comment. “We still have, like, twenty minutes before it gets dark!”

“She probably rewatched Jaws without us and is rweally scarwed.”

Eva rolled her eyes, throwing a smirk. “Sorry guys, ‘rents are planning something special for my birthday tonight!” She called over her shoulder, sloshing her way out of the water until she felt the roughness of dry sand beneath her feet.

“Peace out girl scout!” Riley called, throwing his hand wildly into the air before letting out a girly shriek, lost beneath the waves as Everett launched himself on top of him. Rolling her eyes again, Eva jogged her way across the beach to where she’d parked her white jeep on the edge of the tree-line. Glancing at her watch, Eva groaned. Quarter after six, she had fifteen minutes. Forgoing the shedding of her wetsuit, she loaded her board and hopped in after it, slamming the door behind her. The twisting, car-sickness-inducing road that led from the Lost Coast back up to the secluded, little-known town of Shelter Cove usually had the tourists raving madly about the picturesque scenery and solitude. For Evangeline, or anyone who was perpetually late or got car queasiness for that matter, it was hell packed into a twenty minute race through Bumblefuck, USA. Her car bumped along the dirt road as she skidded around a corner haphazardly, palms beginning to become slick with sweat against the leather steering wheel despite the rest of her body shivering in the cool September air. Of course, she had stubbornly insisted that the top stay off her jeep until October, a request—no, argument— that her father had given in to after nearly a day of bickering back and forth.

“Damnit, I won’t even have time for a shower.” Eva bit her lip, drying strands of salt-soaked hair flying in clumps behind her as she veered around another turn. The one good thing about living in the middle of nowhere was that there was hardly ever traffic, unless you counted the wildlife that usually had nature lovers and retired couples seeking adventure flocking to the Lost Coast by the dozens. _I guess the name is a bit alluring… Much better than if it was called the ‘seagull shit coast’, or maybe the “monotonously boring coast”: home to three hundred people and their thousand animals. Lame._ Truth be told, Eva had always thought it a bit lonesome, her hometown. Sure, she had Riley and Everett. Her redwoods, her waves, her footpaths and her silence. But these things lasted only so long, and somewhere between the eight and ninth grade she’d felt the first strings begin to tug at a heart that was beginning to grow wanderlust. Like most of the resident’s of Shelter Cove, she was sheltered, pun intended. At least, that was what Eva would moan to her mom after the umpteenth time of complaining her restlessness. She hadn’t even gone out of California for college, and while taking art classes at Humboldt State got her out of the town, it did little for her longing.

She’d lived in the small cottage, surrounded by redwoods and the sound of breaking waves, since she’d been born. Miles from any neighbors, Evangeline had always enjoyed the seclusion it presented her with. Well, maybe not always. Now it felt like she was slowly being suffocated beneath the yawning boughs of the great, old trees outside her bedroom window. Tearing up the dirt path that doubled as the family’s driveway, Eva swerved into view of the cozy little lodge, trying to ignore the flicker of movement from the kitchen window that was impossible to miss. Throwing the car into park and leaping through the open window without so much as reach for the door handle, Eva tore across the expanse of emerald, wind whipped grass and burst through the back door, causing her spluttering father to spill whatever he’d been sipping out of a mug all down his front.

“Sorry! ‘M not late, am I?” Eva shouted, not waiting for a response as she darted upstairs to the attic, her bedroom. Her wetsuit was peeled off with practiced ease, quickly replaced by a dark pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Her messy hair was thrown up into a bun, the drawing Eva had been working on that morning— a lovely rendering of the sun setting through the redwoods— swept off the bed along with several pencils and an eraser in her effort to find her missing socks she’d lost in her sleep the night before. Shoving a worn pair of converse on her feet, she tumbled her way back down the rickety steps, nearly knocking over her mother in the process.

“Whoa there little lady, chill out!”

Eva snorted, at five foot nine, she’d been taller than her mother since she’d hit her freshman year of high school. “Little, mom, really?”

“Yes really. What are you doing nerd? Flying through here you nearly gave your father a heart attack.”

Eva winced, her father’s frown popping into view over her mother’s shoulder. It was him she’d gotten her height from. “Sorry dad.”

Jason Septem sighed, a crooked grin slipping across his lips as he dabbed at his shirt with a wet towelette. “It’s all good kiddo, just get your butt to the kitchen for you surprise.”

Eva’s eyes lit up, as green as grass, flickering rapidly between her parents. “Surprise?” 

Shooting her husband a dagger-sharp glare, Eva felt her mother take her hand, pulling her along to the kitchen. “Yes surprise, but that’s later. I made your favorite dinner.”

“And I picked you up your favorite cake.” Her father muttered, bumping her elbow discreetly as he shuffled past to help set the table. Her mother rolled her eyes, playfully swatting at them both, and Eva laughed. Every year that she could remember, her parents had taken her down to the Inn of the Lost Coast for dinner and one of their pretty cakes. This year, they’d caught her off guard by saying they were going to try something a little different. As she scraped her chair at the head of the table out to sit, Evangeline only wondered what that entailed, exactly. Maybe she was getting a puppy? 

* * *

 

Apparently, “different” meant something along the lines of “Suprise! You’re going to Paris!”

_What?_

Eva was pretty sure her voice had suffered long-term damage from the amount of screaming and “thank you-ing” she’d done in the span of ten minutes. And her arm was still bruised from her pinching herself repeatedly. She was equally positive her dad had secretly been video-taping the entire episode of her psychotic breakdown.

 _Great, just freakin’ great, more blackmail for the future._ Reclining her head into the car seat’s cushioned headrest, Eva dropped her sketchpad and her pencil— in sore need of a sharpener for the past hour and a half—into her lap and closed her eyes. They’d arrived two days ago, bumping into the Charles de Gaulle airport with enough gusto to cause her father’s glasses to go flying from his face, not that Eva had laughed… The hotel was quaint, a tidily kept Best Western within the Louvre district which was, coincidentally, their top destination.

“Traveling and art,” her mother had beamed as they’d hopped into the rental car, “Your two favorite things. You’ll run out of sketch paper before we even make it to Versailles.”

“Oh you’ve got to be shitting me, no way.” She was still ninety percent sure her heart had suffered several palpitations by that point. This was it. Cardiac arrest by day three.

“Language,” her father had grumbled.

“Versailles, _seriously_ though?”

“Yes _seriously_ , our tour’s at three.”

Secretly, Eva would rather sprint (or drag, more likely) her way up the Eiffel Tower step by rusty metal step, but one glance at her mother’s ecstatic smile had her shying away from revealing the truth. Stuffy, overly gilded rooms filled to bursting with old portraits of frowning, wig-wearing French nobility didn’t really spark much of an interest in her, but it was Versailles. There was a high chance that she’d never come back, so perhaps seeing it at least once was something she shouldn't pass up so readily. Besides, the famous palace was definitely on Everett’s bucket list— he’d told her about it at least four times, twice in extensive detail, while floating in the blue surf after their University classes. Eva smirked. The chance of almighty gloating eroded too greatly against her aversion to the cluster of overly-populated tourist destinations. She’d though Humboldt State was the epitome of a clusterfuck, but so far in Paris she’d witnessed tenfold the amount of people she’d ever seen in her twenty two years. _Maybe since it’s September it won’t be as crowded… I mean, most people are probably more interested in the Eiffel tower and escargot, right?_

As her mother would say, it was wishful thinking at its finest.

It turns out that Versailles was more of a popular tourist attraction than Eva had imagined, or as she liked to put it, everyone and their damn mother had shown up to clog the parking lot which sat right smack dab in front of the palace. That got her chuckling.“Wonder who’s genius idea it was to excavate a parking lot right in front of one of the most famous palace’s in France?” Eva snickered, frowning when her mother turned to swat her converse-clad feet from beside her head.

“Wonder who’s genius idea it was to not hire parking guides, this place is chaos!” Her father grumbled, nearly his entire torso covering the steering wheel as he leaned forward in an attempt to see around a giant tourist bus. Flicking her eyes upwards, Eva sat up, rolling down the window and peering out across the swamp of car fumes to where the high, arching gates at the front of the palace gleamed golden in the afternoon sunlight. The line for taking pictures in front of them was nearly as long as the Eiffel Tower was tall.

“Bingo,” her father muttered, wheeling the car into a miraculously vacant spot. Rolling up the window, Eva grabbed her pencil and sketchbook, nearly three quarters of the way full with drawings of her favorite pieces in the Louvre and sketches of everyday Parisian life at a glance. Her favorite was one of a couple standing, arms intertwined, on one of the many lock bridges. It had just been in passing, but in that moment she had seen the man lean down to plant a soft kiss atop the woman’s head, and when Eva had looked down her sketchbook had already been open and she drawing the sloping contours of the bridge and their petite frames contrasting upon it. And, y’know, studiously ignoring the pang of longing that exhaled dejectedly in her heart. _Bleh, how melodramatic of me._

“Oh honey, do you want to get a family photo in front of the gate?” Her mother called, her vibrantly red shirt billowing with a fresh breeze. Eva inhaled slowly, trying to commit the sounds and smells to memory. She was so used to feeling a million miles away from life— this city was so different from her little world, halfway around the globe lost in a sea of cliffs and redwoods. She loved it.

“Yeah, but can it not be as corny as that?” She asked, thumbing over her shoulder with a smirk at a group of teenaged girls clustered close together, all crouching to fit in the picture and throwing up peace signs. “Wow, not a single duck face. Someone call the media, this is groundbreaking.”

Her mother laughed. “Well honey, I was thinking something a little more…” Glancing around covertly, Mrs. Septem flashed a quick bird at Eva, who threw her head back and cackled. “Oh, much better. _Excellent_.”

Her mother shrugged. “We can hang it above the fireplace, I figure.”

Eva snorted. “Oh for the neighbors to see. _Lovely_.”

“I figured the bears are tired of looking at that ugly painting your father tried to—”

“Guys, if we don’t get in line now we’ll miss the tour!”

Eva squinted, mentally kicking herself again for declining her mother’s suggestion to bring along sunglasses, spotting her father waving madly from the back of the gate’s line. “He does know that’s not how you actually get into Versailles, right? The entrance is over there.” Eva pointed off to the right, where another, albeit shorter line was serpentined in-between a roped off walkway.

Her mother shook her head, sighing before tilting her sunglasses down over her eyes and beaming.

“Golden gate picture first it is then.”

Two hours later found Eva standing at the back of her large tour group, ignoring whatever it was the tour guide was saying— though she did give him credit for how impeccable his English was— as she madly sketched out the Hall of Mirrors. Sweat beaded on her forehead, causing small, wispy blond hairs to cling to her temple and the nape of her neck. Even in late September the heat radiated, stagnant with not a single relieving breath of wind. _How did those ladies do it in those fruffy dresses? Superpowers, it must be._ What she wouldn’t give for a wide expanse of ocean water to plunge herself into. Or a bucketful. _Seriously regretting opting out of the damn ice bucket challenge thing._ Swiping the back of her hand across her brow, Eva groaned loudly when a fat droplet of sweat splattered smack-dab in the center of her sketch. _That’s it, I need air or I’m going to suffocate. I refuse to die in a hall full of mirrors. I can hear the jokes already, ‘bet she saw it coming’… oh fucking hell no._

Slipping up beside her parents, who were so engrossed in the monotonic facts the tour guide— Phillipe was his name, _maybe_ — was spewing that they hardly noticed her tapping both of their arms.

“Yo, ‘rental units. I’m gonna go find a bathroom.”

“Told you to go before the tour.” Her mother singsonged under her breath. “Don’t get lost nerd.”

“Yeah no promises there.” Rolling her eyes, Eva stuffed her sketchbook and pencil into her backpack before beginning to awkwardly shuffle-bump her way out of the overly-packed room. _Yep, definitely suffocating._ Several painstakingly sweaty minutes later found her feet crunching on the tiny pebbles of pathway that led to the gardens, gulping unhealthily large amounts of fresh air as she struggled to put her long, damp hair up into a bun while balancing her backpack between her shoulder blades. Bypassing the crowded main pools which were located directly behind the palace— an seriously considering doing a cannonball, backpack and all, into the middle of one— Eva slunk her way down into the lower gardens, sticking to the shadows the larger plants and bushes cast like some ridiculously sweaty creature of the night.

“God this is hell,” she muttered, darting into the shade of a particularly tall topiary. She’d never had such a problem with the sun before. The redwoods and coast of northern California had seen to that. Also, there was this awesome thing called air conditioning that this place could sorely use.Again her imagination conjured up court ladies of the past in their three hundred plus pounds of eighteenth century finery and suffocating dresses. Just the mere thought had Eva convulsing. _I’d rather be a slug in a sea of salt._ Turning a corner, Eva froze before blanching and throwing up her hands, exasperated.

“How the hell are they gonna put that there and not expect me to go swimming?” She snapped, glaring at the small crystalline pool before her. The area was secluded, a square space of grass surrounded by hedges and roses, with a stone bench immaculately carved with abstract designs perched delicately at the edge of the lapping blue water. Clutching reflexively at her necklace, Eva tentatively peered into the tiny clearing. Vacant— strange, the entire property was swarming with lobstery-sunburnt tourists and their flashy cameras. She took a soft step forward, then another, slugging her backpack off.

“Just gonna… casually…”

 ** _Splash_**.

“Oh, _yes_.” Eva sank to her shoulders in the water, relishing the coolness as it stole away the slimy, sweaty heat that had plagued her body for hours. As long as her hair stayed dry, she figured she could pull off the whole ‘soaked clothing’ look. Besides, they’d be baking within the hour in this heat. Tipping her head back, Eva peeked open her eye, scouting the area for any sign of human life before sighing and dropping herself back on her arms, submerging herself deep enough that her chin nearly touched the water. Eventually, after the fear that someone would discover her and kick her out under the assumption that she was a hobo bathing in one of Versailles’ garden fountain— _a really ritzy hobo_ — Eva lugged herself from the water, lying down on the bench beside it and arranging her clothes so that they weren’t tangled beneath her. Closing her eyes again, she lay against the warm stone, letting the sun dry her.

“You can’t tell me I was the first person to ever try that shit,” She muttered to herself, “though I’m probably gonna get a disease or something from that water… Worth it.” Her fingers played absently with the small disc of her necklace. She’d worn it since her mother had given it to her, nearly four years ago on her eighteenth birthday. A family heirloom, passed down from mother to daughter since the dawn of time, apparently. It looked old enough to be true at least, the disc no larger than the standard quarter, it’s strange markings worn and eroding— faded beyond recognition. Eva figured it must be either extremely valuable or have incredible history— besides the fact that it had been in the family for centuries— since her mother would often ask her, almost suspiciously, if she was taking care of the necklace. If she’d gotten it dirty. Once, Eva had asked her what she meant by that, it was a bit of an odd question after all.

_‘Just don’t get any blood on it while you’re out scuffling around with your friends. Treat it like a baby, you wouldn’t get blood on a baby would you?’_

_‘Well I mean besides when it’s born— wait mom what the actual hell, what kind of an analogy is that?’_

Her mother had actually made her swear not to ever touch it if she was bleeding. And Eva was pretty sure that aside from the nastiness of it, blood wouldn’t damage gold. Overprotective much? All moms had their quirks she supposed— like Riley’s wouldn’t let him past the kitchen whenever he entered his house without him washing his hands. Eva sighed, the sun lulling her into a welcomed doze— five more minutes, she’d leave in five minutes and go back to that droning tour guided mess, probably squished into an overly decorated closet by now.

“ _Arno_.”

The voice was older, rougher, masculine in it’s tone. And fatherly. Evangeline whirled around, blinking disoriented in the muted lighting streaming in through large, ornate windows. Before her, a tall man dressed in an outfit —complete with a small cape and red sash that made Eva gawk stupidly— beckoned her forward.

_Alright, who the fuck is Elmo?_

Eva yelped when a small, dark haired body passed seamlessly through her, clutching first her stomach before clapping a hand to her mouth. Neither boy nor man so much as flinched. Boosting himself up on a gorgeously cushioned chair (which looked like it was worth more than her parent’s entire house), the small boy— _Elmo, Arno, whatever the hell his name is_ — glanced up at the man, offering him a small smile. Eva floated closer, glancing down at her hands quickly and squinting, half-afraid she would be see-through or worse, smudged and foggy around the edges— ghostlike.

“Can’t I go with you father?” The older man smiled softly, though Eva hardly noticed. She was too busy turning in a wide, slow circle, brow furrowed. This looked an awful lot like—

“Courage my boy.”

Eva whipped around, startled, having already half-forgotten that she was not alone. “You’re fucking telling me— I’m a ghost!”

“You wait just here,” the man continued, unfazed by her outburst— or oblivious— kneeling in front of Arno and reaching into his dark coat, fingers searching for a moment before drawing out a gleaming pocket-watch. Clicking it open, he pointed at the ticking hands. “I will return when this hand reaches the top.”

Absently, Eva wondered if they would notice if she were to take the watch and hurl it at the window behind them. How much of a phantom was she really?

“That’s forever.” Arno complained.

“You obviously haven’t ever stood in line at Disneyland, kid.” Eva muttered, frowning as she stepped forward to peer out the window.

“Not as long as all that. And when I get back, we’ll see the fireworks.”

Realization hit _her_ like a firework— or several. She jerked back, gasping loudly. These people, they were all dressed like they were impersonating some big eighteenth century production. Was she on the set of a movie? At Versailles? _I didn’t see any film crews when we went in… Maybe it’s like Pranked or something._

“And Arno,”

Her foot snagged on the richly patterned carpet, sending Eva teetering backwards. She yelped.

“No exploring, hmm?”

She should have collided with him, the tall man in the strange clothing, but instead she passed right on through. Eva kept falling— the ground coming up hard to meet her.

“Yes father.”

She shut her eyes and threw out her hands, bracing for an impact that would surely hurt. Eva jolted awake, her body jerking gracelessly from the bench, throwing her hands out to try and catch her rough landing onto the pebbled pathway below. She’d been dreaming?

“What the hell kind of dream with that?” _I think that water was drugged…_ Her shorts and t-shirt were barely damp— what time was it? Glancing upwards, Eva noticed with growing dread how low the sun seemed to have sunk.

“Shit.”

If it was as late as she thought it was, her parents probably had the entire palace security force and several grumpy tourists out searching for her. Stumbling to her feet, she slung her backpack clumsily onto her shoulders, wincing as it banged hard against her back. Eva fingered her necklace nervously, gripping it in her palm as she rushed past the motionless pool towards the clearing’s exit.

She stumbled. Gasped, clutching first at her heart, then at her head. The very air itself felt as if it were beating, a spasmodic pulse that had her gasping for breath as her vision blurred. Yep… water was definitely drugged. The sensation came again, and Eva nearly collapsed. A screaming pain ripped through her, lancing from head to heart and back, using her spine as a highway and locking her body up in a convulsion of agony. She’d broken her leg once surfing, shattered four bones in her foot and an elbow to boot after falling out of a tree, and even combined there was no comparison to this— Eva cried out, hands scrambling at her head. Something wet touched her scalp, and she pulled away blindly, stumbling backwards, the stone edge of the pool tripping her up. She fell, and in those brief seconds before her body connected with the darkening water, Eva glimpsed the bloodied skin of her palms, torn from her failed attempt at catching herself. There was a flash of gold. The necklace. The necklace was covered in blood. _Oh shit, mom’ll be—_

She hit the water with what felt like the force of a freight train. It felt like cement, far harder and far more unforgiving than any wave had ever been. Which was saying something. Head snapping back, Eva heard the crackling snap as it connected with the glassy surface of the pool, spots dancing in front of her dimming vision as she felt another pulse beat its way through her.

_I think I’m—_

_Eva blacked out._


	2. Deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever had happened here, it had been violent.  
> The first true tendril of fear slivered its way suddenly down her spine, and spinning Eva clutched at her arms, horror nibbling slowly at the rotting pit that was becoming her stomach. She tripped, steadying herself after a moment of wobbling before pushing the hair from her eyes. Eva blinked, sweat dripping from her nose, her gaze still swimming. As if all of this didn’t already add up to a giant vat of suckage…  
>  _"Mom and dad are gonna kill me."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Firstly, thank you so much to everyone who popped by to read, gave me kudos, or left a comment! It put such a smile on my face that you enjoyed the first chapter! A few things on Chapter 2:
> 
> \- There is some French towards the end that I translated using Google. I know it's not perfect (by a long shot), so if you speak French or understand what it says and are sitting there going "did a trash compactor spit these jumbled up words out or was she attacked by her cat while translating this?" please feel free to let me know what the correct translation is. I tried my best! With that, the English translations will be directly beside their French counterparts; I can't stand fics where you have to scroll all the way down to the end of the chapter for translations, it takes away from the flow of the story, so hopefully this is a bit easier :)
> 
> *** Edit: A huge thanks to **xXDrawingFanXx** for giving me the correct French translations!
> 
> \- Sass master Arno Dorian will finally show up within the next few chapters, and oh, is he sassy... 
> 
> \- Chapter Music:  
>  _* Vanishing Grace - Gustavo Santaolalla_  
>  _* Radioactive - Boyce Avenue Acoustic Cover_
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!  
> \- Morg
> 
> * * *

“Your arms around me come undone,  
Makes my heart beat like a drum,  
See the panic in my eyes,  
Kiss me only when I cry,

Cause you always want what you're running from,  
And you know this is more than you can take.”  
\- Ellie Goulding, _Bittersweet_

**_Date: Unknown._ **

           She felt like she’d been falling forever, like Alice down the rabbit hole. Strangely enough, she couldn’t scream— or move for that matter. Paralyzed and blind, like a fly caught up in a spider’s web, Eva felt her mouth work open and closed grotesquely, the silence around her more piercing than the highest shriek of fear. If this was what death was like, than she was screwed big time. Her stomach flipped suddenly and she gagged, wanting to squirm away from the sensation. Hair whipped across her faces, stinging eyes, cheeks and lips as Eva fell, lashing at her vision viciously and eliciting a small tear to bloom at the corner of her eye, which was immediately snatched up by the wind. Around her neck something seared, white hot like a brand, slapping from her chest to her chin as the plummeting dance sped up. Eva screamed again, struggling in vain to move her arms, her hands, to grab whatever was burning her and yank it from her neck. Throw it away like she had been, tossed into a black abyss and forced to sink for eternity. The object flipped upwards again before smacking down upon her cheek with enough force to send the reverberation rolling through her jaw. With a jolt, Eva realized that she was upside down.  
          At least when— if— I land, it’ll be a quick death. That is if I’m not already there. I can just split my skull open and call it a day— I mean a life.  
          Wispy talons of hair seemed to scream at her for the macabre thought, retaliating by clawing at her eyes and cheeks angrily. The touch stung, burning her skin harshly enough that Eva was sure it would be missing in patches if she ever had the chance to look. An intense heat had begun to spread across her scalp, making her feel like she was doing a handstand on a bunsen burner. Eva thrashed, mouth twisting in pain as the scalding heat began to trickle upwards, slowly, like a candle consumes a wick. The tips of her ears went first, a dull roar enveloping her eardrums and setting them to a boil. When the fire passed from her cheeks down to her chin Eva threw her head back harshly, the shock of her body actually responding only momentary. Her brain was sizzling, her eyes nearly ready to burst they were burning so hotly. Her lungs were next, the blistering heat slithering its way down her throat and expanding in her chest, enveloping her heart and consuming it in one greedy wave of fire. It ate at her spine, snaking its way to her legs lazily, like a snake winding its way through grass. Eva’s arms were melting, her fingernails feeling like nothing more than blackened char. She flailed, writhing as the sweltering heat tore through her. Everywhere it touched, it ate away at the invisible ropes binding her, releasing Eva from her paralysis into a web of agony. Her ribs cracked under the heat’s pressure, stomach boiling and legs turning to ash. And all the while she fell, burning and plummeting like a human comet. Eva snapped her head back and wailed.

* * *

          When she woke, it was to the ironically cheerful chirping of birds. Eva groaned, her eyes rolling away from the harsh sunlight to the bright flowers surrounding her before slipping shut. Her head swam, the blackness of the back of her lids threatening to lose Eva in their depths as the world spun. She was burning up, her breaths coming in shallow, short gasps as the sun beat down on her brow. Sweat trickled down her neck and across her stomach, pooling dormant on her body for only a moment before evaporating as she struggled to sit up, roll over— anything. Water trickled somewhere in the distance, the sound bubbling teasingly in Eva’s ears. It was calling to her, begging her to find it— she needed it desperately. Eva moaned, the sound loud and harsh in her ears, her tongue fat and heavy in her dry mouth as she forced herself to shift. The motion caused her to gag violently, her throat working painfully, feeling like it were made of needles as she struggled to breath. Gasping, Eva squinched her eyes shut, willing the wild spinning to stop. She only succeeded in loosing herself in the darkness again.

* * *

          A caterwaul jolted Eva awake, her vision fuzzy and blurred as she woke, gasping in panic. Her skin was damp, clothes soaked through with sweat, and she was burning. She should have been freezing. Gooseflesh pimpled her arms and legs, her body trembling as a cold breeze swept her up in its unwelcome embrace. The night was utterly black in its presence, the moon’s luminance hidden by an army of dark clouds. Somewhere in the distance a cat screeched, the sound echoing eerily. Head no longer feeling like it was a stuck on a runaway carousel, Eva planted her hands behind her trembling form and slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position. Her hair hung around her in sweaty tendrils, clinging to her cheeks and neck. Weakly Eva attempted to peel it away before rolling herself to her knees, hands flat on the ground to keep her steady. Tremors still wracked her body, and as another cool wind stirred the damp hair on her brow Eva doubled over and emptied her stomach onto the grass below her. She collapsed moments later beside the mess, eyes fluttering weakly as she clutched at her small frame in a mock hug. Her brain felt muddled, confusion wracking it and causing pain to lance to her temples. The night looked cold, a fresh breeze whipping up her hair, and yet Eva felt like she’d been sitting in the hot sun for days. Her body was burning up from the inside out.

         She lay there for what seemed like hours, flitting in and out of sleep as the twists in her stomach slowly uncoiled themselves. At one point it felt like the heat would consume her. Blinking her eyes open, Eva squinted, scanning the sky as the pinkish gold rays of dawn finally broke over the horizon. She swallowed. Gasped for breath, swallowed again. Closing her eyes and counting to ten, Eva hit one and rolled, quivering arms struggling to force her torso upright. She stood on weak legs, using a small, artfully trimmed tree for support. Five feet from where she leaned against the tree, her bag lay forlornly in the grass. Walking was hard.— like walking through a furnace with two lead legs hard. Slowly she shuffled her way the short distance to her bookbag, the expanse feeling more like miles than feet. Eva nearly fell reaching for the black straps, and went down to a knee when she tried to lift it onto her back. With a slow exhale she hoisted the bag onto her back before crawling back to the tree. It took her longer to stand that time.

          As the weak rays of morning light began to illuminate her surroundings, Eva blinked in shock when she realized where exactly she was. Versailles’ garden’s were instantly recognizable, and if the perfectly trimmed trees and bushes, ornate fountains and carefully arranged flower patches threw her, there was always the massive palace looming off in the distance.  
         The first step felt like the millionth as Eva shuffled forward, her pack banging dully against her side, swinging as lifelessly as her arms. How long had she been out? Eva tripped, steadying herself after a moment of wobbling before pushing the hair from her eyes. She blinked, sweat dripping from her nose, her gaze still swimming. As if all of this didn’t already add up to a giant vat of suckage…  
          _Mom and dad are gonna kill me._  
Where were they? Eva squinted, glaring through the rising sun towards the back of the massive, ornate palace. Where was anyone, for that matter? Even for so early in the morning, one would think that even a security guard would be present. _Especially since I’ve been missing for an entire night, like seriously._ Eva shook her head. Twenty steps in, the mental image of her mother and father assailed her, holding one another in the police station, her mother sobbing into her father’s ugly Hawaiian print shirt, clutching her camera to her chest — She nearly tripped over her own feet at the thought, her legs speeding up inadvertently. How had anyone possibly missed her, lying unconscious in the gardens? _There must have been at least thousand people at the palace the previous day, and you’re telling me no one saw me passed out like some college freshman in the pool?_  
           “Someone really needs to reevaluate the security at this place.” Eva muttered, half dragging herself onto the path that led out of the gardens. Well, at least her clothes were dry.

* * *

            Sneaking her way into the palace had been easy enough, if one counted falling through a first floor window and getting tangled in heavy tattered curtains easy. Cursing to herself, her detanglement from the drapes was soon met with yet another obstacle.

            “Christ I hope this is the French version of Pranked.” She’d breathed, lugging her pack off the ground to have it slap against her back, jolting her forward into the wrecked room. It’d looked like a high speed train chase had gone south, broken chairs and tables, tears in what was left of the mostly empty ornate picture frames— a littering of glass sparkled on the floor, a sea of minuscule jagged crystals which crunched daintily under her feet with every step. The next room— a sitting room with a beautiful view of the gardens which Eva had sketched only the day before on the tour— was even worse off.  
            “Fuck, what happened here?” Her heart stuttered, painfully obnoxious, with each conclusion her overheated mind conjured. Had she slept through a massive Parisian riot? Was this all a huge prank? A terrorist attack? The second Revolution? _Zombies_? The end of the _world_?  
            “Okay, okay. Just… You’ve gotta keep calm. You can do that. Yeah, I can do that. Stay chill Evangeline. Freaking out is not an option right now.” Eva groaned, a hand coming up to rub incessantly at her brow before sliding down her sunburnt face. “I’m talking to myself… wait… I’m _answering_ myself, oh shit. I’m so screwed.”

             Countless destroyed rooms later, midmorning hit with Eva blearily stumbling her way into the Hall of Mirrors— pointedly ignoring the fact that at least half of said famed mirrors were shattered beyond repair— towards the only unbroken chair available, shrugging off her bag and collapsing into it with a drawn out moan. From what she’d gathered, the entire palace was ransacked. And majorly cobwebbed— thankfully she hadn’t seen any spiders. _Yet_. Eva’s fingers came up to rub slowly at her burning temples. Her entire body was on fire— whatever fever she had, she had to give it credit for its persistence. Eva had always prided herself for having a salt shake more grit than the average cat owning, sitcom loving twenty two year old, but right about now it felt like she was slowly baking alive. The world had never really stopped spinning, and her mind felt like it was laden with cinderblocks.

            “Alright, let’s go over this shit.” Eva stretched out her long legs, crossing them before sinking down in the chair. She really could go for an ice cold shower and a soft bed. _And one of those little pastel cookie-cake thing— what are they called? Macaroons? Fucking amazing._ Instead, here she was, fully embracing the fact that she was conversing with herself. Head in her hand, Eva sighed, toying with the chain of her necklace with her pointer finger.

           “I got some blood on this stupid necklace which triggered a psychedelic trip that had me falling into that fucking pond, fell some more in that dark—” Eva shuddered violently at the memory, “—place… Woke up, sun rose and I walked my ass in here… ” Gesturing lazily around her, Eva chuckled darkly. “ _This_ place looks like it was hit in the face with a blockbuster apocalypse movie. There’s no one in sight, not to mention the furniture and pictures are entirely different from what they were yesterday. And no one fucking noticed me passed out in the garden. Or they did, and dragged me out of the pond, because how the hell else did I get out of it?” Rolling her eyes to the floor, Eva stared at the golden, dust-specked sunlight as it streamed in from the long windows, idly stretching in length as the sun rose towards noon. Nothing was adding up, and more than half of her was figuring it all up to some crazy dream. She probably had died when she fell into the pond, drowned or something, and this was her purgatory for loathing dresses and the color pink and always making fun of Riley’s surfing tricks (if that’s what he called them)…

  
           Eva cleared her throat, uncomfortably aware of how dry it was becoming. She supposed if the situation became truly dire she could always take a sip of the water in one of the fountains… and quite possibly die from intaking all the chemicals they pumped into it… but she didn’t want to have to resort to that. She wanted to get into an air conditioned car, she wanted a bottle of water, and she wanted a fucking explanation for whatever the hell was going down at Versailles. Somehow, Eva didn’t think she’d be getting any of that, but where was the harm in trying?

          “To the gate it is then,” She muttered, standing slowly and starting at little more than a hobble down the remaining hall’s stained, rich red carpet. When Eva finally managed to find her way to the front of the palace, she stepped out into the sunlight, blinking rapidly in its glare before giving up with a moody huff and averting her eyes to the ground. The lionized baroque gates that encircled Versailles were far grander than she’d ever imagined— Google images didn’t do the thing justice. As she paced herself across the courtyard, Eva couldn’t help but wonder what she was going to do if the gates were locked. It would take her more than half an hour to find the tourist exit in the palace— that was if it wasn’t locked as well ( _by the look of things, it didn’t help_ )— and as trashed as the entire place was from top to bottom, Eva really didn’t fancy kicking out a window or down a door. She didn’t exactly have a million dollars in her bank account for repairs on historical landmarks.  
          Blissfully a shadow fell across her face, the sun shining fleetingly once more before disappearing behind a massive cloud. Eva blinked, refocusing her vision before glancing upward.  
          Her feet stumbled to a stop, knees knocked together and jaw unhinging. It must have looked ridiculously comical, but all Eva could do was stare, her eyes blew wide. There was no gate.  
         “What. The. Fuck.”  
          The gate was gone, bits and pieces of it collapsed on the dusty ground, looking like a giant had plucked it to pieces, casting most to the wind and leaving the rest in shambles where it fell. Versailles’ gate was obliterated, torn down and stamped upon. Gone. Eva heard a small, pitiful sound, like a kitten whose tail had just been stepped on, and barely registered that it was herself who had uttered it. She wanted to collapse, to sink to her knees where she stood and bury her hands in her hair, to scream. Instead, Eva found herself running far faster than she’d thought she was able, over to a small, mangled portion of the once magnificent gate. Peering hard at it, Eva frowned, a hand coming up to mask her slack jaw and parted lips. It was battered and beaten, hacked and cut.

          Whatever had happened here, it had been violent.  
          The first true tendril of fear slivered its way suddenly down her spine, and spinning Eva clutched at her arms, horror nibbling slowly at the rotting pit that was becoming her stomach. Looking up, she gasped, her sane grasp on the situation finally crumbling. The noise that bubbled past her lips wasn’t another mousy squeak. It was a bone chilling scream that rattled her brain and sent her head spinning double time, but all Eva could see was a dirt courtyard that stretched into a forest, her vision tunneling into the leafy tree-line as her scream echoed loudly in her ears. No parking lot, no cars. No buildings and no people. Just dust and dirt and trees.  
          She was definitely going insane.  
          “Ohhh my god. Oh my fucking god. I’m panicking. I’m _panicking_! What the hell?! I- I’m dreaming. Okay no, I’m dreaming, this isn’t real. This is all a figment of my imagination— I’m still out cold in that stupid garden. Or dead. Oh fuck.” She pinched herself hard, violent in her fear, gasping when her fingertips squelched with the wetness of her blood. Throwing down her bag, Eva struggled with the zipper in her overwhelming panic, her crimson covered fingers slipping on the zipper twice before she could yank it up. Her phone was at the bottom amidst a collection of sightseeing pamphlets, chucked carelessly inside before the tour had started the previous day. Swiping it open, Eva pulled up her contacts, jamming her thumb down repeatedly on the call button next to her mother’s picture, her breath coming in loud, shaky pants. Plastering the phone to her ear, she winced when the ringback tone began to blare. And then, as soon as it started, it cut out.”  
           “Mom!” Eva shouted, “Mom thank God you picked up. Please help me, please, please, please. I’m at Versailles, I don’t know what the fuck is going on— are you okay? Is dad—” The words flew out of her so quickly Eva could barely understand what she’d said. It didn’t matter. The obnoxious beeping that blared through the phone back at her caused Eva to fumble and forget her next words. She’d heard this tone once, when she had gone with Riley and Everett camping up in Washington state and there hadn’t been any service. But that had been way back in the boonies, at least twenty miles from any kind of civilization. Shakily Eva felt the phone slip from her trembling fingers, clunking back into her bag.  
            “Oh my God,” She breathed, her vision blurring with tears as she buried it in her shaking hand. The fear was real now, threatening to claw its black way up her throat and suffocate her. What was going on? Where was everyone— the police, her parents? And what had happened here?

            A scuffling to her left had Eva flinching violently, limbs and muscles locking as she twirled around, blurred gaze locking with what looked like two— three men. Her first thought was their bizarre clothing— breeches and tattered, billowing shirts and overcoats, a tricorn. Her second, registering a second later, was how quickly they were running at her. The shing of metal sliding from a sheath had Eva scrambling backwards, the flash of a dagger catching the light into her eyes. Oh shit— Like lightning she shot off, her hand snagging her backpack as she tore away in the opposite direction, her heart pumping a rhythmic fear, siphoning adrenaline to the tips of her toes as flight won the hard-pressed battle over fight. It wasn’t in Eva’s nature to run, not usually, but when something sharp was involved, well…  
_Bye, fuckers._  
            “Hé chérie! Où vas-tu?” _[Hey sweetheart, where are you going?]_  
            “As if… this could get any worse… I can’t freaking understand what they’re saying!” Eva sprinted, veering away from the palace and streaking off in the direction of the forest road. Necklace slapping heavily against her throat, her feet pounded against the dusty ground, stirring up great, brown clouds that threatened to suffocate her as she flew down the path. Behind her, the scuffling of her pursuers grew louder and Eva cursed. She’d ran on her high school’s cross country team all four years, but that was distance, and this haphazard chase was a matter of speed. And wit.  
_Loose them in the trees!_  
            A bird cawed darkly in the tree canopy overhead. She’d just have to loose them a different way. Swerving left, Eva dove from the path into the forest, her feet flying along the moss-strewn ground. Her bag clanked against her back, a nuisance, but Eva was far too caught up in the whirlwind of terror and escape to notice. Or care. They were following her, that much was certain from the way the men crashed and careened blindly through the forest. Having been raised in the midst of the Redwoods, Eva was much more accustomed to springing lightly and silently through the brush. It seemed to be working to her advantage.  
          “Elle est où??” _[Where did she go?]_  
          “Elle a complètement disparue!” _[She disappeared!]_  
          Their voices echoed distantly— she was loosing them! Wheezing, Eva’s hand darted out, catching the rough bark of a nearby tree, the other going to her burning chest. Her breathes came in rushed gasps, and casting a quick glance over her shoulder Eva ducked behind the tree she leant against.  
          “Elle est ici quelque pars, les gars,” the third voice snarled, “Et quand nous la trouverons, je serais le premier à l'avoir à ma manière." _[She is here boys, and when we find her I will be the first to have my way]_

          Eva was shaking as she attempted to curl up into the smallest ball possible, tucking her legs beneath her and moving to wrap her arms arms herself.  
         “Oh God. Oh God, oh God, _oh my God_.” She mouthed, and then all went silent, even the twittering birds. It was like in those cheesy horror movies, when the suspense built as the idiotic damsel in distress snuck around the house, not even her footsteps making a sound as she unknowingly crept closer to the monster. Except this was far too real, and Eva wasn’t moving towards any monster. It was moving towards her. As if to add to the mess, her body writhed internally, her skin burning like a white hot flame. She could do nothing to stop it from rising. And then, like a brick to the skull, the thought hit her.  
_My bag. I have a pocketknife in my bag._  
          Slowly, as not to make any noise, Eva sat forward, unlooping the shoulder straps from around her arms and cringing as the sudden acrid scent of burning cloth hit her nose. Smoke coiled daintily before her eyes, and gasping loudly Eva dropped her pack, slapping and hitting at the fire that had started to burn its way inward towards its precious contents— fire that had started where she’d touched the cloth. Eva covered her mouth with shaking fingers before gasping and throwing her hands away from her skin in horror, the tears that spilt from her eyes burning hotly as they slunk down her blistering cheeks. They barely made it halfway before evaporating.  
        _I’m trapped in a dream, I’m trapped in a fucking dream. I just set my bag on fire… Oh god, what’s happening to me?_  
         Eva screamed, the noise tearing roughly from her throat as her head was suddenly jerked back, the grip on her hair violent in its strength. A boot connected roughly with her stomach, and her scream turned into a strangulated squeak. A face swam into view, dirty and smug: the three men from before, her pursuers.  
         The monster had found her.

         “Eh bien, et qui pourrait-il être? Une petite fille perdue dans les bois?” _[My, and who could this be? A little girl lost in the woods?]_  
          Unfortunately for the monster, Eva had never really seen eye to eye with the unfortunate damsels in the movies. With a muffled cry she lashed out with her foot, swinging as hard as she could to connect solidly with one of the men’s kneecaps. As he fell screaming, the pull on her hair became stronger, her hand flying up to grab hold of the blond strands. Gripping it tightly, Eva gasped at the singed smell that hit her nose and tongue, and a second later she was falling forward, free from the man’s grasp. Scrambling up, Eva spun around wildly, wide eyes finding the bewildered expression of the Frenchman as he starred at the patch of hair he still held before turning his gaze to her.  
          “La salope a brûlée ses cheveux!” _[The bitch burned her hair off!]_  
          “If that has anything to do with the whole burning thing,” Eva nearly growled, “just know I have no idea how the fuck I did it, but I’ll totally fuck your face up if you try to—“  
          “Sorcière!” _[Witch!]_ The third man spat, ignoring Eva’s words before lunging at her.  
          Her reaction was instantaneous. Lurching sideways, Eva just barely step-sided the oncoming attack before throwing herself at the man, her hands coming up to grapple with his neck, long fingers lacing around pale skin easily. And oh, how it burned. It only took seconds, but it felt like hours. The man screamed once, twice, as Eva poured all her fear, her rage and her agitated confusion into the heat that thrummed within her fingertips. Whoever he was, he was dead before he hit the ground, Eva’s fingers peeling away bloody and gore-streaked as the man fell to a heap on the forest floor. His neck was charred black and bloody, and his eyes bulged. His tongue hung limply from the side of his mouth.  
         Flinching back in horror and balling her fists, Eva felt her neck snap to the side with a sickening crack, the punch reverberating through her jaw and causing her head to thrum incessantly. She fell, a twin body paralleling the dead man beside her, cradling her jaw as tears threatened to overwhelm her vision. Another hit, this time to her abdomen, sent her gagging violently. The third blow connected solidly against the side of her temple, and then the ringing in her ears became her only world. Eva blinked slowly, her vision blurred, and watched through dimming eyes as the remaining men moved to check their comrade. One kicked him, the other spitting to the side and folding his arms.  
         “Il est mort.” _[He is dead.]_  
         “Nom d'un chien, c'est une sorcière!!” _[Damn, she is a witch!]_

         Vaguely Eva watched, a spectator in her own body, as the shorter of the two turned— deadly and quick as a viper— ripping a wicked looking knife from its sheath on his belt and darting towards her, dagger raised and gleaming viciously. His arm whirl-winded halfway down before the knife was smacked from his hand.

         “Mais qu'est ce que tu fais Pierre?” _[What do you think you’re fucking doing Pierre?]_ The other man shouted, shoving his companion aside angrily.  
         “Ben, j'étais en train de la tuer!” _[Well, I was trying to kill her]_ Came the snappy reply, Pierre picking himself off the ground and dusting his breeches annoyedly. “Jusqu'a tu m'avais arrêté, crétin! Cette fille est dangereuse, la vois-tu pas?” _[Until you pushed me, you idiot. The girl is obviously dangerous Slyvian.]_  
             She was burning up again. Eva moaned softly, her mind a muggy scramble of confusion, eyes raking her surroundings. If she was slow enough about it, perhaps she could manage to crawl away unseen. Stretching a shaky hand out, she winced as the two men’s voices began to raise, her fingers staining themselves black as they ensnared themselves in the dirt. She pulled herself forward.

         “Quelles étaient nos instructions?” _[What were our instructions?]_ Sylvain snarled, getting in Pierre’s face. “La jeune fille est clairement hors de l’ordinaire, -et c'est quoi la demande de la Bête?” _[The girl is clearly out of the ordinary, and what is the demand of la Bete?]_  
         One foot, maybe two— Slowly but surely, she was sneaking away from the bickering fools.  
         “Euh, que tout le monde hors de l’ordinaire… nous lui apportons.” _[Uh, that everyone out of the ordinary… we bring him.]_  
         “Ça fait un bon moment qu'il est à la recherche de quelq'un comme celle-lui-ci...…” _[He’s been looking for a long time for someone like this…]_  
         A large, rough hand closed around her ankle and Eva screamed as she was dragged backwards, a second cry echoing hers as Sylvain drew back, clutching his reddening, burned hand, eyes wide.  
        “Ne le touche pas.” _[Do not touch her.]_ He growled through gritted teeth.  
        Pierre snorted mockingly. “Ça, j'ai entendu?” _[You don’t say?]_

        Eva’s breathes were coming in erratic pants, her fingers scrambling in the dirt and dead leaves as she sat up, pushing herself back rapidly. She had no clue what the two Frenchmen were saying, but something whispered to her that it was far from them discussing who should be the one to call the ambulance for her. If they even knew what an ambulance was. A shadow suddenly fell over her, blocking out the sunlight that filtered through the treetops. Looking up hesitantly, Eva couldn’t help but balk at the hulking mass of a man towering over her. His snarl was menacing, as was the boot that came flying towards her in a blur.  
       “Assez, la Bête doit obtenir son prix, et nous notre récompense.” _[Enough. La Bete must obtain his prize, and we our reward._ ]  
The hard leather of his shoe collided with her temple solidly, and Eva didn’t even see so much as a single star as the blackness burst like pus across her vision and she lost herself in its sludge.


	3. Trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a roar she thrust her arms forward, hands finding flesh and fingers wrapping tightly around the man’s arm. The heat in her surged. She smelt his flesh smoldering before he’d even had the chance to blink in shock. The pads of her fingers burned hot, fueled by her rage, her confusion.  
> "I controlled that." Eva panted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Here's the next update, I hope you enjoy it! I'd like to give a super-huge thank you to **xXDrawingFanXx** for being a love and translating all of the French in this chapter! Thank you again, you're awesome! Also, I'll be on vacation at the beach for a week starting tomorrow, and I'm not too sure if there is wifi, so there's a chance the next chapter might be posted on Saturday instead of Friday. 
> 
> Ps... A certain As **sass** in may or may not make his debut in the next chapter ;) See what I did there? I know, corny.
> 
> \- Chapter Music:  
>  _* The Hard Cell - Chris Tilton_  
>  _* The Quarantine Zone (20 Years Later) - Gustavo Santaolalla_  
>  \- Morg
> 
> * * *

"It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog."

\- Mark Twain

 

_**Date:** **Unknown** **.**_

She woke to the smell of piss and the sound of catcalling, a jumble of hooting and lurid bestial promises called through the cold iron bars she leaned against. Eva groaned, the world spinning as her head throbbed and her limbs bent and wilted, eyes flipping left to right erratically before they nearly rolled back up into her skull. Groaning again, Eva forced her eyes open, willing the dim room to stand still as she sat up slowly. Her body burned steadily, a warmth that was becoming less alarming and more comfortable with every passing moment— like a natural occurrence, a norm within her body's ecosystem. Feeling around herself, hands ghosting through the grim darkness seeking a familiar cloth fabric, Eva groaned before closing her eyes and leaning her head gently back against rough stone. They— whoever the hell "they" were— had taken her singed backpack. Fuck. Her phone was in it; might still be working.

"Now how am I supposed to fucking escape this mess." Eva muttered, a hand dragging down her cheek, rubbing at her eye as she struggled to keep the room from spinning. She definitely had a concussion, though this one seemed to be slightly less severe than the last one she'd obtained— smashing her head against a rock hidden within the surf after bailing from her board during an early morning surf outing. If she could survive that shitshow, then there was no stopping her over this one, no matter how much it absolutely sucked.

"Eh bien? La fille est enfin reveillée!"  _[What is this? The girl is finally awake!]_ A gruff voice suddenly shouted, and a scraping, scrambling sound wrinkled its way through the darkness. Looking around Eva squinted, just barely managing to make out the hazy outlines of several ragged men clinging to the bars that separated her… cell… from their own, oogling at her. She shuddered. Jail? Had they thrown her in jail? _For what? I didn_ _'_ _t do anything! I must speak to someone immediately_ _—_ _explain the mistake! My parents, maybe_ _…_ Awful lighting masked the look of horror which slowly drew itself out on Eva's face, a hand hovering to cup her mouth, lips parted in dreaded realization. But she had killed someone, hadn't she? Back in the forest— that man. Gasping, Eva shut her eyes quickly, ignoring the calls of the male prisoners as her memory dragged from its depths the image of her hands around a screaming man's throat, burning his skin and turning his vocal cords to mush. _I think I_ _'_ _m going to be sick_ _…_  Her hand darted out, grabbing the bar of her cell for support as Eva slouched into it. She had done that. Eva bent over and threw up.  _Her_. She had  _killed_  a person. That was basically torture— she had tortured another human being to a horribly painful death.  _But how?_ How was it even possible that she had burned him so badly, so quickly? Eva's sobs were muffled, her body shivering with shock, quaking and shivering as she stared, frightened, at her upturned hands.

"Hé petite! Viens ici pour t'amuser avec nous!"  _[Hey little lady, come over here and have some fun with us!]_

_I was so angry._  She thought, oblivious to the men.  _So angry_ _—_ _so confused. And why shouldn_ _'_ _t I be? Where the fuck am I? Where are my parents?_ Where _!?_ The fury began to simmer, her skin bubbling with it, her veins frothing. And those men in the forest, they had chased her— attacked her. Tried to hurt her— that was why the one had died. It was self defense.

"Self defense. Only self defense. I didn't mean to." She muttered shakily, the beaded tear that dribbled from the corner of her eye hissing against her skin before steaming off. Eva hardly noticed. A foul smell was floating in the air around her, the steady pitter-pat-pat of something dribbling and dripping yanking Eva from her rage. Something warm slide over her hand, and in the not so distant gap between the cells, a few of her male jail-mates gave a cry of surprise.

"C'est vrai."  _[It_ _'_ _s true.]_

"La barre! Regardez la barre!"  _[The bar, look at the bar!]_

"Elle l'a fondue!"  _[It melted!]_

"C'est une sorcière!" _[She_ is _a witch!]_

Eva gasped, a small squeak of shock hissing between her lips as she drew her hand back, eyes glued to the bar she'd been grasping— or at least,  _where_  the bar had been. Instead, all that remained was a gap between the bars where a dark liquid now dripped a molten gold.  _The iron_ , Eva mouthed, before raising her right hand up to glare at the liquified metal that dripped from it. Her mouth was suddenly bone dry, her head beginning to spin faster than when she'd woken up.

"Retiens celle-là loin de ma bîte!"  _[Keep that one away from my dick!]_  One of the men shouted, which earned a chorus of obnoxiously loud laughter. Looking up through blurred eyes, Eva miserably curled herself into a ball.

"What's happening to me?" The words were choked out of her in little more than a whisper, her eyes welling with hot tears that hardly made it to her cheekbones before evaporating. "What's going on?" Her hands flitted to her hair, her clothes, expecting to feel only tatters burned away, a smooth scalp. Instead, she felt a solid head of golden locks. Her fingers snarled around a wad of clothe, her clothes intact.  _That doesn_ _'_ _t make any sense._ _  
_ A flicker of movement caught at the edge of her vision— Eva froze. Whatever it was she'd glimpsed through her tears, it was  _in_  the cell with her. And it was coming closer. The thing— a shadowy blob blurred by her tears— slunk left then right, creeping closer until it was only fifteen feet away, where it halted. Wiping the remaining tears from her eyes, Eva strained her eyes through the dark, watching as the thing sat suddenly, something very red and very bushy flicking to wrap its way around the thing's front paws—  _a tail,_  Eva thought. It's head cocked, it's sharp gaze matching Eva's, and with a gasp and a jolt she realized what it was, exactly, that she was looking at. A fox— a vibrantly red one. She'd lost count of how many times she'd seen the little guys roaming around her house in the forest. But why was it… in a prison?  _Staring_  at her? It's intelligent gaze unnerved her, something about it making Eva's insides squirm like she was being watched by something more sinister than a mere fox. Letting her left hand skim along the damp floor, Eva winced when her knuckled scraped against what she'd been seeking. Picking up the small shard of rubble, Eva gripped it tightly for only a moment before she let it fly. The stone clattered brokenly to the floor, the retreating fox's tail clipped as the creature slunk away hurriedly. Glaring in the direction the wicked looking thing had slunk off in, Eva wrapped her arms around herself, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her chin atop her kneecaps. Of all the fox she'd ever encountered, none had ever made her feel so insignificantly helpless. It was hard to explain— but then again, what wasn't at the moment.

"What's even going on?" Eva whispered with a shudder. The burning in her palms that rooted in her core had died down, no longer the fiery wrath that had scorched through her only moments before. Ignoring the continuous calls of the men close by, she curled in on herself, feeling hollow and alone. What better way to forget her troubles than to get lost in sleep? After all, couldn't it be possible that all of this was some over the top nightmare?  _I_ _'_ _d like to wake up now, like seriously, what the fuck is this shit?_ Something told Eva that wouldn't be happening in the near future.

* * *

"This is some Taken shit right here." Eva shouted as the guard retreated, throwing the food and water he'd brought her at the bars angrily.

They wouldn't tell her why she was there. Not that she could understand them if they did. In the two days since her capture, or arrest— whatever the reason she was being held in such a terrible place— Eva hadn't gotten more than a few passing sentences out of the guards.

"They don't even look like prison guards!" She fumed, sitting in her favorite spot— back against the far wall, elbows resting on knees and slitted eyes scanning the bars before, on the lookout for any of the disgusting men who tried to speak to her her. "Like, the one is wearing freaking stockings.  _I_  don't even wear stockings." Eva shook her head, brushing some of her bedraggled hair from her face. She smelt terrible, the access heat her body seemed to constantly emit doing little to assuage the stink that seemed to sit around her like smog. Not to mention, she was incredibly tired of peeing in a pot. And not knowing what time of day it was sucked too, but that's what her watch was for. Really, Eva just wanted a shower, some food that wasn't moldering bread, and her parents.

"Oh, and someone who  _doesn_ _'_ _t_  speak French so I can get a fucking explanation for this shit." She growled, throwing a small fragment of the stone wall that had broken off at the bars before her. Of course, going by how her luck seemed to want destroy her, her aim was completely off. The rock sailed silently through the gap between the bars, flying with enough force to emit a painful sounding smack when it eventually connected with the noggin of a sleeping prisoner… who just so happened to be the largest in the adjoining cell.

"Ooh, of  _course_." Eva groaned sourly, watching with widening eyes as the behemoth rose, cursing (or so she assumed, because honestly what else could he possibly be saying? He just remembered he was late to a tea party?) up a storm in French as he furiously rubbed his head, turning to eyeball her with a glower that certainly gave the phrase "if looks could kill" a hustle for it's money.

"Espèce de salope! Je vais déchirer tes dents et les mettre où le soleil ne les trouvera pas!" _[Fucking bitch! I_ _'_ _ll rip your teeth out and shove em_ _'_ _where the sun doesn_ _'_ _t shine!]_ The huge man wrapped meaty fingers around bars that suddenly looked ten inches too skinny, gripping the iron as if it were toothpicks and shook them so hard that his muscles became corded.

"Fuck." Eva muttered, getting to her feet and skittering to the far corner of the cell. She winced when the cell bars rattled and groaned violently. "Well, at least I'm in here, right?" She muttered. "They make these jail cells durable for a reason. Even if that reason's not exactly what we'd expect it to be— man I've really gotta stop talking to myself."

_Crack_.

Eva's eyes snapped to where the mountain of a man stood, two separate cell bars broken off into each of his hands, and a gap large enough for any man to squeeze through if he put in the effort sitting wide before him. Leading directly into her cell.

"Holy— um guards?" Eva scrambled back further, "What the hell guys, I need some help!" Pointing at the man forcing his way into her cell, her voice went up several octaves. "Sir, um, no offense but if you could do that all along why no just, oh I don't know,  _escape_?" The man caught her eye, a dangerous gleam reflecting in his own before he shouldered his way roughly into her cell with a gruff, dark chuckle. Eva felt her entire frame freeze up.

"I'll stop talking now.  _Fuck_." Think what those hands could do to her head— her neck.

The shadow cast by the great hulking form lumbering towards her had Eva panicking so severely she forgot which way was up.  _Thinkthinkthinkthinkthink!_  Her mind whirred, limbs prickling with apprehension for the onslaught of whatever action she'd spontaneously take, adrenaline sending fire rushing through her veins. Her fingertips burned where they lay balled in her palms.

"Tu ne t'échapperas jamais d'ici, petite sorcière!"  _[You can_ _'_ _t escape from here, little witch.]_ The man grunted gleefully, and behind him a few others laughed.

_What do I do? What do I_ do _? Whatwhatwhat_ _—_ "Shit!" Eva yelped, throwing herself to the right seconds before the man's knuckles collided with her face. Picking herself up from the floor, she glimpsed blood gleaming grotesquely where it had begun to bead against the man's bruising knuckles. The wall behind him was cracked. Almost impossibly, his glower worsened.

"Je vais te baiser avant te tuer, petite pute!" _[I_ _'_ _ll fuck you and then I_ _'_ _ll kill you, little bitch!]_

"Whatever  _that_  means, no thank you." Eva huffed, dodging out of the way of another poorly aimed strike. It seemed that for all his bluster, the poor brute was a terrible shot. It almost looked to Eva like he was  _trying_  to miss. Until, of course, one punch landed solidly against her chest, sending her flying a good several feet backwards. Lying flat on her back Eva gagged, a hand scrabbling at her convulsing throat, the wind knocked clean out of her.  _Move, you need to move. Now!_  Forcing herself to suck in air, Eva wheezed as she made to roll over onto her knees, grunting in pain when a heavy foot landed solidly atop her stomach, pinning her to the ground like a bug.

Eva cried out, nails digging into the man's leg as she struggled, gasping in breathless panic as the foot was ground harder against her stomach. She could barely breath.

"J'avais attendu ce moment depuis que t'es arrivée,"  _[I_ _'_ _ve been waiting for this since you arrived]_  the oaf hissed, leaning down so that his greasy face was only a foot from Eva's. She gasped, croaking, the lack of oxygen causing spots to fleck her vision. In a last ditch effort, her panicked hands fastened themselves leech-like to the man's huge calf, nails digging in desperately to rip and scratch. The man threw his head back and laughed mockingly, his hands already moving to the waistband of his tattered pants.

And then he screamed. And screamed. And  _screamed_ , so furiously and so unbelievably high and loud that if Eva wasn't fighting for her life she would have been utterly confused as whether to hightail it or laugh. The shriek came again, shrill and tortured, the man's hands frantically squabbling with her own, prying her fingers from his leg desperately. Eva was unrelenting in her grasp, and it wasn't until the great mass of a man suddenly passed out, falling with a bone-rattling thud to the ground beside her, that Eva relinquished her hold. Her hands came away steaming, her fingers slippery against one another, completely bathed in a boiling, hissing crimson to the point that they dripped and dribbled morbidly.

"Ma jambe!" The man howled, sobs causing his voice to crack every other broken word. "Ma jambe, ma jambe! Il est en feu! Que Dieu me sauve!" _[My leg, etc_ _…_ _Oh my God, it_ _'_ _s on fire! Help me God!]_

Across the cells the others had begun to bang on the bars of their iron cage, some screaming for the guards while others gaped at the scene unfolding with wide eyes and hanging jaws. None dared enter Eva's cell, and scrambling shakily to her hands and knees she hobbled her way across the dirty floor, as far away from the man as possible. A few minutes later a guard arrived, his keys jingling madly as they bounced in shaking fingers as he struggled with her cell door. Two more followed the first, and as the door burst open and they flooded the small room, Eva heard the first gasps as they beheld the damage she'd inflicted. She's seen it clear as day before she'd dragged herself away— had watched as her attacker's flesh had steamed and reddened, bubbling and blackening. And still she'd clung on, until his skin began to melt and his blood made a dramatic appearance, frothing and foaming pink. Until she'd seen his bone and it had  _blackened_. A whisper had begun to hum in the air, and among the words Eva could pick out two clearly, repeated over and over amongst the inmates— the guards even, who eyed her warily from where they huddled around her unconscious attacker.

"Sorcière," They condemned her. "Démon."

Eva didn't need to know French to know what they were saying; not this time. But oddly, as she gazed at the singed, charred remains of her destruction, the smell of burnt flesh sizzling like electricity in the air— a static charge of violence— Eva found that she could hardly care what names they whispered about her. In fact, in that moment she welcomed it. If she were stuck in this reality, dream or otherwise, she might as well embrace whoever— whatever— she was. Glaring at the unconscious man, Eva's eyes swept past all three of the guards' fearful gazes before returning to her assaulter's prone form. Licking her lips, she grinned crookedly at the sliver of hysteria that stroked her heart before chuckling.

"You fucking deserved that, dude."

The next morning, a man with a hood came to collect her.

* * *

 The bag was ripped unceremoniously from Eva's head, yanking at her hair as the sunlight blinded her, eliciting a small yelp. The hard metal binding her wrists behind her back was unrelenting to her feeble attempts to burn it to mush—  _maybe melting that bar was a dream?_ — when suddenly a key sprang the lock and the biting iron fell away. Gingerly Eva brought her hands up to rub away at the dark indentations set into her skin. The heat within her simmered low, almost nonexistent, and not for the first time Eva wished she had some grasp of her newfound power. Some concept of how to control it.

Squinting against the harsh sunlight filtering into the room from the floor to ceiling windows before her, Eva tried as best she could to make out her surroundings. A fancy carpet, expensive looking paintings of chubby people in ridiculous frocks and too-white wigs, a globe cast in what looked like gold sitting atop an exquisitely carved desk— and a man, his crossed legs propped up on the rich dark wood of the desktop, shielded in shadow from the glare of the sun. Shifting uncertainty in her chair, Eva scratched the back of her neck, staring unflinchingly at the man, waiting for him to speak. A minute went by, two, three at least, and unconsciously Eva began to squirm under the stranger's couldn't see it, but she could feel it. Unwavering. Penetrating her skin, looking past her carefully constructed poker face deep into her thoughts mired by unanswered questions. Leaning back in her seat, Eva shifted again, turning so that she sat with her legs dangling carelessly over one of the chair's arms, the other occupied by her arm, her cheek propped in her hand.

"So I, uh, don't suppose you speak English, do you?"

The man shifted, Eva trailing his movements with her eyes as he suddenly stood and walked from behind his desk.

"Curieuse, et si petite."  _[Curious, and so small.]_ He murmured to himself, his gaze unrelenting.

"Of course not. I'm not even fucking surprised anymore." Eva groaned, slouching, her cheek falling into her palm. She didn't care if she was being rude— she'd had it with… well, with  _wherever_  she was. Not five feet in front of her the man had halted, towering over her imposingly. Eva let her eyes wander, taking in the black of his attire, the leather boots and red brooch that rested nestled in the ruffles of his dark shirt. He was big, bulky, yet strong, with stained teeth and greasy black hair that twisted into ringlets beneath where a red ribbon secured it into a low ponytail. And his  _gaze_. As black at a pit, and twice as deep. Eva frowned, realization sending a barely suppressed shudder to rack her spine— the man, he wasn't staring at her. Not her face at least. He was staring lower, at her neck.

"Combien de puissance peut-tu résider dedans, je me demande?" _[How much power can reside inside, I wonder?]_ He muttered to himself, stepping forward slowly.

"Wh _oa_  buddy," Eva scrambled out of her lazy position, springing from the chair like a deer and vaulting behind it. "Don't come and closer, okay? I don't know why the hell I'm here— well I mean, at least I think I do," Eva winced internally as the screams of the man she'd tortured— the man she'd  _killed_ — flashed across her mind's eye. "But that's besides the point. You're not getting a step closer until you tell me where the fuck I am, and who the hell you are."

Now his eyes were on her, and instantly Eva regretted her words. Poisonous, wicked— evil. His glare was a death sentence, something that shot a thrill straight through her heart and froze her motionless.  _Dangerous_. Her instincts whispered.  _Deadly_.  _Don_ _'_ _t let him near you._ Eva swallowed loudly, sweaty hands gripping the back of the chair hard. The man took another half-step towards her, the corner of his mouth crooking into a sinister smirk.

"I swear to God if you come any closer I'll burn your face off." Eva hissed, her vice firm though her legs felt like the ocean at high tide, restless and wavering. Her hand raised, slender fingers outstretched and poised to grip and never release. He was staring at her neck again. A moment's pause, a breath before the storm. And then, he lunged.

He was fast. Faster than Eva had previously thought possible of such a hefty, muscled body. With a gasp she flinched backwards, attempting to regain her footing and escape his outstretched fingers simultaneously, her heart thudding in her ears, pulse reverberating in her thoughts. She felt the pressure before she registered what was happening, felt his strong fingers close around something that bit sharply into her neck, dragging her forward, towards him. _My necklace!_ The thought lanced through her panicked mind. _He_ _'_ _s grabbed my necklace!_ An image of her gasping for air as the life was choked out of her, the gold chain tight around her throat glinting in mocking irony, had Eva snapping from her frenzy of terror. With a roar she thrust her arms forward, hands finding flesh and fingers wrapping tightly around the man's arm. The heat in her surged. She smelt his flesh smoldering before he'd even had the chance to blink in shock. The pads of her fingers burned hot, fueled by her rage, her confusion.  _And oh, is there plenty of that to go around._ With a cry of pain her attacker flew backwards, relinquishing his hold on her necklace as he fell back into his desk with enough force to wring a strained groan of protest from it. Silence hit the still air, threatening to drown Eva in the building suspense. The man shook his head slowly before gripping his singed arm. "Vous pouvez le contrôler."  _[You can control it.]_  He muttered, and that hungry gaze was back, locking with her own.

"I controlled that…" Eva panted to herself, feeling a sudden tidal wave of fatigue wash over her. All Eva could do was stare, wide eyed and frozen with fear, like a deer caught in headlights.

The man straightened, gaze unflinching, before striding towards her. He moved past her without a second glance before Eva could even think of dodging away from him, the door creaking open quietly. "Remet-là dans sa cellule."  _[Put her back in her cell.]_  He barked.

"Oui, La Bête."

Eva didn't struggle, out of breath as she was, as her hands were rebound in front of her, noticing with a shred of relief that the guard failed to return the bag to her head. Marched out of the ornate room, Eva took in as much as she could. It is was extremely easy, since the guard leading her would stop every few turns.

_This guy is totally lost._

Slowly she began to realize the idiocy of the man behind her, the unsureness of his step and the way his breathing stuttered heavily whenever he paused. The halls were just as grand as the room she'd just left, but Eva couldn't help but observe how sparsely decorated everything was— the walls, the rooms they passed through. It wasn't until they reached a tiny chamber littered with only a few chairs and splintered tables that Eva finally spotted something worth staring at. Her backpack, lying forlornly on its side upon one of the tables alongside a few other tattered goods that looked like they'd been looted from homeless beggars. But  _hot damn_ , her backpack. She'd found it. Now all Eva had to do was get her pray her things hadn't been taken and steal them back.

_Fat chance._

Her initial course of action was to utilize her new power: to burn the fucker to a crisp, steal her pack, and run. The marching echo of several booted feet past the door ixnayed that plan quickly— she'd be dead before she even found a way outside, and then what good would her phone do her. Besides, she was still exhausted from the last little skin-melting party. No, her best bet was to get her things stealthily and use the night to plot an escape… and try and call for help of course. Clearing her throat, Eva resorted the one thing she'd learned from watching so many period dramas with Riley. She collapsed, throwing in a desperate cry for good measure. Behind her, the guard stuttered, his boots clattering loudly against the floorboards as he backed away in shock. Eva lay, her back facing him, her lips pursed in a ghost of a smirk. A heartbeat of silence, and then—

"Mademoiselle, est-ce que ça va? Mademoiselle?!" _[Miss, are you okay? Miss?!]_

"Oh!" Eva moaned, rolling so that she faced the distraught guard and batting her eyes exaggeratedly. "My head,  _my_   _head_. I'm on  _fire_! Uhh…" Eva faltered, glimpsing the look of utter confusion on the man's drawn, sweaty face. He had no idea what she was saying. "Uhh… Feu?" She'd seen enough fire alarms in her hotel back in Paris to at least know that word. "Yeah, feu!  _Feu_!" She moaned loudly, clutching at her forehead with her manacled hands.  _Fire! Fire!_  She thought, focusing the burning in her body towards her brow. The strain it took caused droplets of sweat to bead at the nape of her neck and her vision to blur dark. A look of realization dawned on the guard's face, and squatting down next to her he reached out with a tentative hand to feel at her forehead timidly.

"Aah!" He cried, flinching backwards, clutching his fingers to his chest in fright. "Oh-Oh mon Dieu! Vous brûlez!"  _[Oh my God, you_ _'_ _re burning!]_  Like a baby deer the man scrambled ungracefully to his feet, backing away quickly and pointing towards the door and the hall beyond. "Restez sur place, je vais chercher de l'aide. Ils auront ma tête si tu meurs!" _[Stay put, I_ _'_ _ll go get help! They_ _'_ _ll have my head if you die!]_  And with that he was gone, footsteps flying down the hallway at a breakneck pace.

Eva waited until all sounds of movement outside the room had faded before rolling onto her knees with a grunt and a snicker. It had been a gamble to assume that the guard had not known— had not been informed— of her…  _condition_ … Then again, he did seem clueless.  _Maybe he_ _'_ _s new,_  Eva mused, shuffling her way quickly over to where her backpack lay.  _Suck_ _'_ _s to suck._

It was difficult work unzipping her bag with bound hands, especially so with the added pressure of having to hurry as fast as she could, but Eva managed. Inside, her hands fluttered around awkwardly, searching for her phone. "Please don't be dead, please don't be  _burned_. Please, please,  _please_ — aha!" Eva muttered, the pads of her fingers ghosting over the glossy smooth screen of her iPhone six. Yanking it out, Eva breathed a silent sigh of relief when the screen lit up brilliantly before her. She'd forgotten that she'd turned it off before their tour of Versailles— that meant a full battery! "Holy hotdog buns, I rock!" She crowed gleefully. Shoving the phone into her bra, Eva dove back into the backpack, nearly slicing herself on her opened pocketknife before drawing it out quickly— she'd heard the ricocheting echo of hurried footsteps approaching. Knife hidden in her shoe, Eva nearly upturned the table in her haphazardness effort to get the bag closed again, nearly throwing herself onto the ground right in the nick of time. Around the corner and into the room swerved the dolt of a guard, accompanied by two others. Shutting her eyes quickly, Eva let herself go limp, feigning unconsciousness. The men surrounded her, speaking rapidly in French, their voices raising occasionally.

_They_ _'_ _re arguing,_ Eva thought offhandedly, wondering what they could possibly be talking about.  _The other two probably know about my little_ _…_ _heat issue._ Eva winced internally, her limbs nearly locking up in shock when a large palm touched down across her forehead.

"Il n'ya rien de mal avec elle!" _[There_ _'_ _s nothing wrong with her!]_ Snapped the man above her irritably, ripping his hand away from her forehead and stalking away, his footsteps clicking on the marble floor as he departed. "Retourne la prisonière dans sa cellule, et ne pense pas à me déranger plus loin avec ton stupidité!" _[Return the prisoner to the cell, and don_ _'_ _t think to bother me further with your stupidity!]_

Boney arms shoved themselves beneath her limp form hurriedly, the guard huffing and grunting in his struggle to lift her.

"Es-tu assez fort pour portez une si petite femme?"  _[Are you strong enough to lift such a small woman?]_ The second guard mocked, snickering at the way Eva was nearly dropped as his companion stumbled awkwardly.

"Elle est encore chaude, c'est pas normal..." _[She is still too hot, it_ _'_ _s not normal.]_ The man holding her protested, his tone mired with confusion.

_What was I thinking taking German in high school? Oh wait that_ _'_ _s right, I wanted to learn how to say shit like_ _'_ _du hast einen kleinen schwanz_ _'…_ _Fuck me._  Eva moaned inwardly, struggling not to break her facade and choke out the man carrying her for his carelessness— he'd nearly smacked her head against something when he'd turned!

"La femme a un condition, c'est tout ce que je sais. Maintenant, s' il vous plait. Assez." _[The woman has a condition, that_ _'_ _s all I know. Now, please, enough.]_ The second guard gruffly spat the words before turning so curtly the heels of his boots clicked together and marching from the room.

"Cul," (Ass) the man holding her muttered, beginning a stiff, blundering shuffle towards the door that led to the prison.

_If he smacks my head against anything I_ _'_ _ll kill him,_ Eva repeated to herself, endlessly, like a prayer. She'd just about had it with all of this bizarre confusion— if she was dreaming, it was high time she woke up. Feeling the reassuring cast of her phone against the skin of her chest, Eva prayed the heat slumbering within her wouldn't melt it. When she felt no trickle of molten metal and glass, Eva allowed herself a faint smirk— It was time to take control of this fucked up situation. Tonight, she would begin planning her escape.

_What the hell am I escaping_ into _, I wonder?_


	4. Quatre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Arno Dorian, this council charges you with the task of finding the man known as La Bête. Find him, learn his plots, and bring him peace, in accordance with our tenets.”  
> Before he had turned to leave, Mentor had called his name and he had froze, glancing up at her unsurely. Not that any emotion was readable on his carefully impassive eyes and set lips.  
> “You and you alone are tasked with this mission. Do not fail.”  
> Now, as Arno stalked through the empty building, his Vision swooping the billowing black of the dusty rooms, he felt the stirrings of discouragement settle like a blanket around his heart. _Alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big beachy hello from New Jersey! So far I’ve managed to get nowhere in my book (Steven King’s “It”, if you’re interested in a wonderfully scarring paperback experience), a pretty good sunburn (everywhere), and about zero hours of sleep-in time (my mother likes to work out at 7AM… wth). But! I did finish up this chapter, so here ya go! As I mentioned, this one marks the arrival of the Sassmaster (finally). And if you don’t know who that is then I recommend you replay Unity. ;) Thanks again to **xXDrawingFanXx** for the translations! You rock!! And for those of you who dropped by to review, kudos, bookmark, or just plain read my little story, thank you so much :)  
>  Enjoy!
> 
> \- Chapter Music:  
>  _* Arno's Return - Chris Tilton_  
>  _* The Hunters - Gustavo Santaolalla_  
>  \- Morg
> 
> * * *

"Important encouters are planned by the souls long before the bodies see each other."

\- Paulo Coelho

 

**_Date: Unknown._ **

They didn’t come for her until the next night. Eva frowned when the guard that wasn’t binding her wrists in front of her moved to cover her head with a sack.

“What’s the point?” She groaned, rolling her eyes at the guards as her gaze disappeared behind the fabric. “I already saw the route.” She refrained from mentioning that whatever guards had passed her on from yesterday had forgotten to mention that rope and her wrists wasn’t a good mix. The iron cuffs were nowhere in sight, just a length of thick rope that bristled against the skin of her wrists.

“Ca _an_ ’t be… to _oo_ careeful.” Came the reply, causing Eva to gasp softly to herself in surprise. Tilting her head to the right, she squinted, straining her vision to see past the dark burlap covering her head to the shadows that danced grainy on the other side. If she focused, she could just make out the shoulders of the man before her.

“You… you speak English?” Granted, his ‘English’ had been poor at best, weighted down with the thickest accent Eva had ever heard, but still, it was a start. Finally, someone who understood her. She was half-certain she would have gone stir-crazy sooner than later over the lack of communication intake that spanned the past few days.

“Enough.” Came the grunted reply, and with it Eva nearly tripped as she was pushed forward roughly. Stumbling, she immediately wished there was nothing covering her face so she could send the two guards her fiercest glare. And maybe stick her tongue out, just to show them she meant fucking business. _I’m so helpless, Christ almighty._ Unsure if the guard had simply been telling her to shut up, Eva decided to test her limits and prod further.

“Can you tell me why I’m here— or where here is, even? I think there’s been some mistake.”

“Mais, qu'est-ce que cette salope dit là?” _[What is the bitch saying?]_ Muttered the other guard.

“You are in Paris,” The man behind her grunted, pushing her forward again. “No mistake, La Bête has been searching for you, woman.”

They were out of the prison now, Eva recognized the obnoxious squeak of the tiny door as it opened, saw the shadows around her shift as the guards ducked to go through. Against her thigh the heavy pressure of her little knife snug in her pocket was comforting— Eva had snuck it there hours before the guards had come to collect.  
“La Bête _(who the fuck?_ )— Searching for _me_?” Her breath suddenly caught in her throat— she knew what was happening. “Oh fuck, oh fuck— this is some Taken shit, isn’t it? Look you guys, if you get in touch with my parents, I’m sure they’d pay you whatever ransom you wanted.”

“Nom de Dieu, qu'est ce qu'elle raconte à la fin?” _[In the name of God, what is she saying?]_ She heard the guard on the right mutter.

“Elle est folle.” _[She’s crazy.]_ Came the reply, which sent the two chuckling darkly behind her.

Eva whimpered, wanting to do nothing more than bury her head in her hands and cry for centuries. That explained half of it then, in a way. The strange outfits, the shitty prison, the reason she’d been chased— been captured: she’d been kidnapped. And, most likely, she was going to be sold as a sex slave. Unless, of course, she managed to escape.

When they shoved her into the chair— the very same she’d danced around to avoid the man with the penetrating gaze the day previous— Eva stealthily withdrew her pocketknife from her short’s pocket, clutching it for dear life in her white-knuckled grip.

“La Bête, la fille que vous avez demandé.” _[La Bête, the girl you requested.]_ Came the announcement, and within five seconds the guards had departed— no doubt waved away— and they were alone.

_So he’s this ‘La Bête’… what does that even mean in French anyways? And what could he possibly want with me?_

When the bag was removed from her head, Eva steeled herself before looking up to meet the gaze of the massive man. Her hands remained bound inconspicuously before her. “Do you have anything to do with this strange little heat issue I’ve seemed to develop?” She asked, her voice strong and unwavering, much to Eva’s pride. La Bête didn’t reply, his eyes dropping from hers to find the pendant around her neck again. Eva bit back a cursed— she needed to keep him distracted for her plan of escape to work.

“Why. Do. You. Keep. Looking. At. My. Necklace?” She asked, slower this time, enunciating each word as if he were a simple child. This caught his attention and he frowned, turning and striding back to his large desk which was, in Eva’s opinion, far too ostentatious for her liking. When La Bête sat, Eva felt the floor shudder under his weight. _Holy cow man, lay off the weights._ Her heart leap in sudden excitement. From his vantage point, there was no way he’d be able to see her sawing away at her bonds.

He didn’t speak, merely scrutinized her from afar before looking down to rifle through the small stacks of paper loitering the massive expanse that was his desktop, brow furrowing as he searched. Eva’s fingers worked quickly, the sharp little blade on her knife sawing hard at the frayed rope, limbs locking up every time La Bête would glance up. Her skin crackled silently, burning at the foreign material slowly but surely. Finally, the hold on her wrists slackened, and as slowly as possible Eva uncoiled the shredded rope from around them enough so that in an instant she would be able to pull her hands free if need be. For now, it merely needed to appear that she was still bound. Hopefully the man wouldn’t notice her lack of irons. Across from Eva, La Bête had finally found what he’d been looking for, a loose sheaf of paper with a handful of words scribbled across it, and was holding it close to a burning candle— another aspect of the strange place that Eva hated: there was no electricity. _Like, at all. What the hell? Who forgot to pay the electricity bill?_ Then again, she supposed not all illegal slave cartels were as high-tech as others… La Bête peered up from his close scrutiny of the note, his eyes boring holes into Eva’s skull, and for a moment she feared that the jig was up— how could he not know what she was planning with such a penetrating gaze?

Eva gulped, nervous. This was it, make or break. Do or die. Clearing her throat, she fixed the man before her with the most loath, scathing look she could muster before letting loose.

“Excuse me you fuckwad, I’m fucking talking to you. God, are all French people as spaced as you, or did your whore mother just drop you on your ugly shit face as a child. I asked a motherfucking question!” Eva all but thundered, her insides feeling like jello, although she sounded like fury incarnate. “Did you or did you not have something to do with my little heat issue? Do I have to fucking spell it out or do you have an English dictionary shoved somewhere up your ass and to the left?”

The roar that unclogged La Bête’s throat seemed to bring with it a transformation. His face burned red, the veins in his temples bulging, his eyes wide and scarily singular in their target— her. He nearly vaulted over the desk in a mad dash to get to her, most likely to rip out her throat and cut out her tongue (in reverse order, of course). _I can’t believe he understood all that_ — even if he hadn’t, her heated town had been a message enough. Eva wasn’t sure what would happen first, her death by disassembly or her peeing her pants— both were valid options. _Both options really suck._ Eva swallowed, scared. She was about to make the former death scenario one thousand times worse. Or the latter a thousand times messier… But it was necessary, the brute couldn't know— couldn't _suspect_ — what was coming.  
“Oh, are you coming to wash my mouth out with soap? What are you, my mother?” _[Alright, that one was a little lame…]_

He reached her in two strides, and faintly Eva wondered if the man even understood what she’d said, or if this reaction were purely from the fact that she’d been screaming the entire time. And, of course, that ' _fuck'_  wasn’t exactly the hardest word in the English language to decode. Well, unless you were a bit spacey. La Bête reared back and raised his right hand, wide palm aching upwards already ringing with the bruising slap that was about to connect with Eva’s cheek. There was no room for error now. In one fluid movement Eva unraveled her hands from the rope, pulling her phone from her bra, gripped at the ready in her left hand, as it came up to hover in the limbo between her and her would-be assaulter. She looked up, caught his gaze, and aimed. _Here’s hoping the flash is still on—_

 _Click_. Again. _Click, click, click, click._

“Not one of those selfies is gonna be good because you’re _fucking_ _hideous_!” She screeched, voice wavering in half panic, half exhilaration.

The man cried out, not sounding much like a man at all, hands thrown before his eyes as he fell backwards heavily. “Mes yeux! La sorcière m'a aveuglé! Gardes! À moi!” _[My eyes, the witch has blinded me! Help, guards!]_

Eva nearly knocked the stupid chair over in her mad dash for the door. Skidding out into the hall she sprinted full tilt towards the end of it, veering right, running blindly. Eva could hear her heart pounding in her ears, something she’d always scoffed at when reading all those thriller novels her mother liked to keep around the house. _How can anyone hear their heart pounding? What a stupid description._ Only it didn’t seem quite so stupid now. Three more turns and she encountered her first guard. _Not very tight on security here, do I sense possible under the table budget cuts?_  The man was older, maybe in his early forties, with graying hair and a tired looking face. _I mean, they can't even afford electricity!_ Rounding the corner, a small part of Eva balked at the man. _What do I **do**?_ It screamed, slamming on the metaphorical breaks, panicking. Luckily for her, the majority of her mind was hiked up high on adrenaline, and the crazy rush was impossible to shut down. _Move!_ It screamed at her, deciding. _Fucking run! Jump! Fight!_

And so she did all three.

Pounding down the distance between them, Eva dodged left at the last second, narrowly avoiding the short sword that slashed through the air inches behind her. Again, that small, horrified part of herself shrieked in terror. But Eva couldn’t stop, not now. It would be suicide; way more so than this.  
Jumping, Eva ricocheted off the stone of the wall, using the narrow space to her advantage and colliding full force into the guard, driving her knee and elbow as hard as she possibly could into his groin and throat. The dull thud of his body thwacking the ground was only a distantly heard victory— Eva was already sprinting towards the other end of the hall.

“I knew… that self defense special… was worth watching…” She huffed, panting as she finally came across a set of wooden stairs and all but threw herself down them two at a time. The staircase spiraled, and for ten seconds Eva became nothing more than an unstoppably dizzy mess as she whirled round and round, blurring as she flew down each step. It wasn’t until she hit the last creaking wooden board that Eva realized how much her shit had deepened. She would have found a way to deal with two guards, maybe even three at the most. Four was pushing it though, but her adrenaline would have found a way, she had no doubt. But seven? Seven guards?

“Ne la tuez pas!” _[Don’t kill her!]_ One of the men shouted, the dagger he brandished glinting malevolently in the light of the torches tacked randomly to the walls.

“I really hope you just told them not to maim or injure,” Eva muttered. She didn’t pause after hitting the main floor, instead springing without a chance for breath directly at the closest guard.

 _Sorry for this_.

Her hands clutched his throat and squeezed unforgivingly tight. Two seconds, a pitiful scream, and he dropped, fingers scrambling at smoking flesh as his breath struggled to wheeze in and out of his lungs pitifully. For Eva, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Behind her, the man fell like a rag doll. Before her, two more stood imposingly in her path to freedom. _Freedom_ , the word tasted too good on her lips to give up so easily. The second man fell similarly to the first, while the third made the mistake of grabbing her from behind. Locked in a chokehold, Eva narrowly avoided another man’s sword, kicking it roughly away from her and grabbing on to the guard’s arms who held her. A scream and a second later she was released.

By the time she reached guard number four, Eva was so worked up she was practically steaming. Literally. The heat rolled off her body in waves, threatening to overwhelm her, to suck her in and entomb her in its swelter. She fought it off, the urge to collapse, instead narrowly dodging a dagger marked for her leg. Using that same knee, Eva directed the momentum of her dodge around and upwards, kneecap connecting with crotch in an explosion of fury and desperation. The guard dropped, lips a surprised ‘O’. _Like a sack of rocks,_ she smirked. Suddenly, a hand grabbed the back of her shirt, dragging her with unrelenting strength into the bear hug of another guard. She could feel his heavy, strange looking coat crackle and crunch with heat, but the man remained unrelenting. _Boy, what are the paying_ you _?_ Whirling, Eva reached down into the pockets of her shorts, too exhausted to grab at the man’s neck— to burn him. A fog was beginning to overtake her, a weariness which left her sluggish and gasping for air.

Eva knew she was in trouble when her finger’s grasped air instead of a pocketknife. _Shit… must’ve… dropped my stuff when I ran…_ To the left she saw a rustle of movement, a guard bending to examine her phone from where it lay forlorn on the floor. Betrayed, its screen snapped to black in the guard’s hands. Stumbling a step, she looked upwards in time to see a fist swinging hard her way. Her eyes rolled up, and Eva fainted before the blow even connected with her temple.

* * *

**_September 29th, 1796._ **

Ducking, he dodged the punch with ease, whipping around the guard and snicking his blade into the back of the man’s throat in one seamless movement that was artfully elegant. _‘Poetic’,_ de Sade liked to say. _‘As attractive as that mephistophelian smirk of yours, my dear.’_ Straightening, Arno sheathed his hidden blade, hooded gaze snapping like a hawk’s to the right as a shout rose in the thin mid-afternoon air. With practiced ease he swung up and away, quick fingers and long legs carrying him higher and higher until he pulled himself over the edge of the dilapidated building’s roof and crouched like a cat, eyes fixed on the group of men who had spotted their fallen comrade. They were four in total, all dressed shabbily similar though not in uniform. Two wore tricorns, the others nothing, not even a ribbon to keep their long hair out of their faces— which, if it was anything like the man’s he’d just killed, could use a good wash or three… What sparked Arno’s attention truly, however, was the reddish glow, suffocatingly demonic in the afternoon haze, that littered around their persons like a lecherous cloud. Together, all four appeared to be caught in the after-effects of some terrible gas bomb. He blinked and his Vision faded.

“You couldn’t be more conspicuous if you tried,” Arno sighed almost lazily, resisting the urge to fling himself down on the edge of the building with his chin in hand and legs dangling as the four guards mulled about, one looking left and right before dumping the dead man unceremoniously into the nearest hay stack. 

“Remind me not to jump into that one,” Arno muttered, shifting so that he balanced with one foot resting against the ledge. As patient as he’d become since his Novice days within the Brotherhood, the four imbeciles below were beginning to test his limits. Aside from the guard he’d just slain, there had only been two others that Arno had encountered. Eerily, all three had had the same reaction. The same answer to his question: _‘Where is La Bête?’_ And without fail, the guards had all paled so rapidly that Arno had thought they would fade away altogether, like ghosts on the wind, before muttering something along the lines of confused indignation. How could they possibly be paired for working for such a vile man? Que an eye roll. The first two guards Arno had persisted without the use of ulterior methods, prying open their truths with his sharp tongue and rigid tenacity, but the last guard… _Let’s just say his oversized nose was begging for a fist to flatten it._ Circles, they were leading him in circles, and for someone who’d only just recently re-donned the hood of the Assassin’s, it was more than a splash of cold water to the face in terms of recollecting how some missions had used to drag. _Face down. In the mud._

Rolling his shoulders, Arno watched as the remaining guards finally turned, casting furtive glances around the small alleyway before scuttling off and turning down another side street. The shingles clattered underfoot as he moved, lithe and graceful as a cat, leaping and rolling from roof to roof as the guards down below serpentined their way through the slummy streets. This far from the center of Paris, the outskirts of the city appeared every bit as broken and abandoned as its inhabitants wanted visitors to believe. Just another tactic to stay alive. Absently, Arno found himself wondering what the small cluster of dilapidated buildings would have looked like before the Revolution had taken the country in a chokehold. Would it have resembled some sort of quaint little neighborhood, or remained much the same? His keen vision flickered to the rear of what had once been a building of grandeur. Rising several stories, it had the make and quality of an expensive apartment destined for the more affluent section of the city. _Strange that it would be stuck in the middle of such a shitheap..._ That answered his previous question, he supposed. One by one, the thugs slipped through a large door with paint peeling in droves from the finely molded wood, disappearing into the gloom of the ramshackle building with only a single backwards glance from the last to enter.

Arno chuckled at their blatant lack of awareness. “What is it with bad guys and old grand buildings?”

Swinging himself over the edge of the roof, he tumbled gracefully from the building that stood across from his destination. On the street, the manor hulked over him like some sort of decaying monster, daring him to enter its depths. Putting his hands on his hips, he sighed, eyeing the place up and down.

“This isn’t conspicuous at all. Seriously, they couldn’t have picked something that’s, oh I don’t know, a little _smaller_?”

The _hideout_ , as was its true purpose, was massive. Massively obvious. It nearly took up the entire block, the many broken windows that littered its floors glittering in the afternoon light, turning the place into the likeness of some strange ethereal palace… if one squinted away all the damage. With a soft step and practiced stealth Arno slipped inside. Staring through the gloom, impatience clawed within him like a stray cat hungry for meat. It was becoming increasingly harder to stay even-tempered. The more imperturbable Arno of the past would have already been moving, seeking out the target, putting an end to this endless mission. But not this Arno. This Arno stood, eyes staring unseeingly into the darkness, and thought. It had taken him three weeks to track La Bête here, six if you counted that dreadful excursion to the Margeride mountains. He’d never been one for travel in the first place, and the south of France had been a culture shock for someone who had rarely left the confines of the city and its surrounding towns in years. It had had to be done, though. The information he’d required was priceless; essential to the mission; of which was quite possibly the most important the Council had ever chosen to singularly saddle him with. Arno closed his eyes briefly— he could still recount the conversation as if it had only just occurred on the other side of the peeling door. The two novice escorts shoving him into the center of the council room (he’d remember _that_ ), his appeal to rejoin the Assassins being answered with grumbles of dissent. His plea for a chance. In the end, it had been Master Trenet who had quietened the others, had looked him in the eyes from her high perch above him and honored his request with a frown and a name: _La Bête._

“He’s been targeted by all forms of military still remaining within France.” The mentor had explained. “We suspect even the Templars want him dead.”

“What are his crimes?” Arno had bitten his tongue, holding back the wit that had previously always followed. His best behavior was needed in such a delicate situation as this. He couldn’t have afforded any slip ups, not with his foot already in the door of the Brotherhood once more. He’d just needed to hear the mission details, the assignment, and then leave.

“Well,” Mentor Trenet glanced at the remaining council members. Here was where it had gotten… strange. Arno hadn’t really been sure why he’d been surprised. “La Bête has never been seen, not by any of our forces at least. People say he is a demon, convulsed, made of smoke and mirrors. A phantom who haunts relentlessly.”

“Why send me after a ghost? That would be no small waste of efforts, would it not?”

“Because, Arno Dorian, he isn’t a ghost. People like to talk, to fabricate. This man, whomever he may be, is real. And working for someone— someone powerful.

Someone dangerous. Aside from the citizens he’s killed, La Bête has been targeting many important figures in the military.”

“Napoleon?” Arno breathed.

The mentor had shrugged, “He is included in the masses. The brute has already successfully killed an entire platoon of high ranking officers set to depart for the Battle of Würzburg just last month.”

“France lost that battle.”

“So you can see our concern.” They had stood then, the remaining three council members plus one that had recently been inducted— Vicarre had been her name— and fixed Arno with pointed stares. “Arno Dorian, this council charges you with the task of finding the man known as La Bête. Find him, learn his plots, and bring him peace, in accordance with our tenets.”

Before he had turned to leave, Mentor had called his name and he had froze, glancing up at her unsurely. Not that any emotion was readable on his carefully impassive eyes and set lips.

“You and you alone are tasked with this mission. Do not fail.”

Now, as Arno stalked through the empty building, his Vision swooping the billowing black of the dusty rooms, he felt the stirrings of discouragement settle like a blanket around his heart. Alone. He was entirely alone. Possibly one of the greatest threats to the country, a man considered both a ghost and a demon practically, and they send an ex-Assassin seeking to be reinstated to do him in. _Alone._

“Do not fail,” Arno muttered mockingly, rolling his eyes as he picked his way across a room full of shattered furniture and broken glass. “They couldn’t even lend me one other Assassin for this, not even a bloody novice.” The irony of the situation was evident even as he complained. The council knew he preferred working alone, knew it would have rubbed him the wrong way to have been paired up with another on a mission so important as this. They were doing him a favor by sending him solo. So then why was he bitching? The answer, Arno discerned, was hidden beneath the layer of debris that had made up the last few years of his life. Something he’d constantly picked at, forced himself to sort out, and yet had never completely scrubbed its tarnishing hue completely clean. Ever since the year of ’94 his outlook towards association with others had been piss poor— he never quite truly made it past acquaintances with anyone, efforts having been grim at best (aside from his scrap in the tombs with little Leon). He worked better alone now, and that was a glaringly obvious fact. Alone no one else could get hurt. Alone, he only had to worry about himself.

A thud from the second floor had Arno slinking towards the spiraling stairs he’d passed two rooms back. Despite their obvious batter and rot, the boards squeaked only once as he ascended quickly, gaze catching their first glimpse of red as Arno slipped up the final step and took refuge behind an upturned table. The thug that paced the halls did it lazily, his step heavy with fatigue. Counting to three, Arno timed his attack for when the man turned away from him to re-begin his long walk down the hall. Pouncing, he covered the guard’s mouth with a gloved hand as he landed the killing blow, step siding the fallen body and continuing down the hall. From up here, the fading afternoon light hit the dusty windows dead center, casting out the shadows and leaving Arno to creep forward in a dazzling yellow brilliance that he immediately decided he hated. The sunlight never did help much with stealth. Another guard suddenly stepped into the glow of the waning light, shielding his eyes and squinting. Without hesitation Arno dropped into a crouch. Spinning, he lashed his leg out with streamlined grace, sweeping the guard off his feet and onto the carpeted floor with a musty thud. Arno’s hidden blade had slashed its way into his throat before he could even cry out in shock. The man’s gaze blew wide, eyes emptily absorbing the blinding sun until Arno slid them closed.

A scream nearly made him leap from his crouch, the noise high and feminine. Dread engulfed him, and he crept forward. His Vision slid over a set of double doors, a faint golden hue buzzing behind them.

“Found you,” he whispered. He only hoped whoever was in La Bête’s possession wasn’t already dead or dying.

“I believe we ‘ave, sweet ‘art.” The chuckle was low, sinister, and directly behind him. Rolling instinctively to the left, Arno winced as the heavy swing and fall of an axe missed his head by a foot. Two forms towered over him, smirks visible on the shadows that were their mouths.

_How did they—?_

Arno dodged the axe again, this time allowing himself to somersault towards the solid support of a wall. Springing out of his roll, he leapt, boot finding purchase against crackling paint as he ricocheted off the dilapidated wall and landed feet first into a rather large nose. The wet crack that resounded was music to Arno’s ears as he turned, grabbing the remaining guard’s hair as he fell, dragging the man down with him. In the chaos of their descent, Arno’s hidden blade found purchase snicking into the back of the guard’s neck. The clunking thump was heavy and loud when the guard collapsed in a heap, Arno’s much lighter frame landing soundless beside the dead man. Spitting blood from where it had drained into his mouth, the remaining thug clattered clumsily to his feet, lurching sideways with a grunt before pointing a bloody finger at Arno, who was dusting off his robes.

“You t’ink you’re the only one who has any tricks up his sleeves?” The man threw back his head and cackled, blood arcing a dainty red before him, the dagger he’d drawn from seemingly thin air whirling in a jagged gracelessness as he careened towards the Assassin. “I got news for you, pretty boy. You ain’t.”

The phantom blade whirred and clicked, the mechanism releasing the small, sharp point of metal a second after the words spilt from the man’s lips. He fell, clutching his throat where the blade had buried itself— Arno didn’t stay to watch the man’s end. Instead, he strode over him, avoiding his final jerks and sidling up to the door where the scream had emitted from. Annoyed, Arno shot a hateful glance at the prone forms lying in heaps behind him. His element of surprise was ruined, those two had seen to that. Listening, Arno frowned when only the wind whistling through the broken glass of the windows greeted his ears. His Vision proved more useful, though his eyes, irritated, begged for respite. Arno ignored them. Within the room stood two forms, to colorful hues, one which surprised him. The bloody red- laced with gold of his target shone brightly out of the corner of his eye, but Arno ignored it, frowning instead at the glowing, motionless black shimmer of whoever else resided within. _Black?_ He’d never seen someone highlighted as such before. Who could possibly be in there? And what had La Bête done to them?

Warily, Arno tried to the door, resisting the urge to groan when he found it was locked. “Really, the most fearsome criminal in France is a door locker. What is he, twelve and hiding from his father’s belt?” His mutterings aside, Arno backed up, pulling his hood low over his eyes, Mentor Trenet’s final warning suddenly finding an unwelcoming reception in his mind. She’d leaned over the balcony separating Council from Assassin and had fixed him with a look so serious he’d done a double take.

“Do not take La Bête lightly, Arno. He is dangerous.”

“Yes, that much I’ve gathered… Are there any signs I should look for, something I can go off of to know I’m getting close.”

“The man had a very distinct way of killing. I urge you to take the utmost caution in dealing with him. And above all, refrain from close combat— don’t let him see your face.”

“Of course, though you failed to enlighten me on his ‘distinct way of killing’.”

Staring at the locked double doors now, Arno could clearly recall the way the Council members had cast one another dark looks at his question. 

“La Bête, he enjoys the kill. In all the victims to date, their death was recorded as a brutal mauling. He ripped their throats out.”

“What, with his bare hands?” Arno had chuckled at the time, amused. Not taking it seriously— why did he never take anything seriously? _I suppose the whole ‘don’t engage him head on’ tactic has gone to the dogs now, hasn’t it?_   Steadying himself, Arno leapt forward, charging the doors at full force before lashing a foot out and kicking them wide open. The rebounding ricochet of hinges crackling and wooden doors smacking wooden walls clapped against his eardrums, but all Arno could hear was the Mentor’s voice, like a dreaded whisper in his mind.

“No Arno, with his mouth. He tore them out with his teeth.”

* * *

_Oh, lovely._ Eva gulped, eyeing the sizable knife La Bête had pulled from his myriad of weapons attached to a belt that hung low on his hips. Brandishing it in the light of the candles that flickered hungrily in the dying afternoon sun, he gripped it hard in his fist, his knuckles standing out whiter than snow. Pacing, he circled her like a shark might circle it’s prey, his grin an awful stained rouge. Eva tried not to look at that particular detail. From her vantage point, hands cuffed tightly behind her back with metal that bite into tender flesh, stuck in a rickety old chair, Eva could do little to dodge the sudden punch that was aimed at her cheek. A squeak escaped her red lips, soaked crimson pooling from where her teeth had gouged out a chunk of the tender pink flesh. Blood dripped, pattering onto her shirt, her leg, and Eva winced as her lip screamed, throbbing with pain. _I think he just knocked a tooth loose…_ Blinking blearily, her eyes roved, searching for the danger, for another well aimed punch to her face. La Bête was too quick, his arm lashing out like an angry viper to strike her squarely in the gut. Eva gasped for breath, eyes growing round as they caught the quick glint and flash of the knife still clutched precariously in her assaulter’s meaty grip. At the rate they were going, it was only a matter of time before La Bête opted for the blade instead of his bloodying fists. The next blow was just as unexpected as the first, only a thousand times worse. Eva gagged, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she felt her ribs crackle under the heavy impact of the man’s booted foot. Her chair groaned, mocking her agony, before tilting and capsizing with a loud clatter, throwing Eva to the ground roughly. She hardly noticed. The pain was so intense she could barely breathe, her mouth working soundlessly as finally the tears spilt unbidden down her pale cheeks. The edges of her consciousness vibrated, tendrils of smoke smudging at the corners of her gaze. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered La Bête speaking.

“Éspèce de crétine! Tu nous donnes beaucoup plus des ennuis que tu vaux! _[Stupid whore! You’re more trouble than you’re worth!]_ He grabbed her then, lifting her off the ground by her tattered shirt to where he hulked over her. Eva groaned, her hands scrabbling weakly against the solid grip he had on her, whimpering when his slimy lips brushed wetly against her left ear. “Je vais te dire une secret, petite pute! Si ce n'était pas l'intérèt confusant de mon maître, je t'aurais arraché ta gorge et ta bouche, tout saignant qui couleront par ton corps stérile! _[Let me tell you a secret, little bitch! If not for my master’s confused interest in you, I’d have torn your little throat and that stupid mouth of yours all bloody and dripping from your lifeless body!]_

 She dug her nails in as hard as she could, but La Bête hardly seemed to notice. Mustering up both courage and strength that had long since taken refuge, Eva spit out a glob of blood at the man and coughed. “I can’t fucking understand you, you _fucking_ _moron_.” She hissed. It morphed, warping into a pitiful scream as La Bête drove the dagger downwards suddenly, slicing at her stomach. The point slipped through the skin and muscle of her right side like butter, blood siphoning to the surface as Eva gasped in pure shock. With a roar the brute yanked her upwards, his grip on her arm bruising at best, his hand on her throat choking her. Eva flew through the air like a rag doll, crashing into a large wardrobe in the far corner of the room with a splintering, sickening thud. His stride was long-legged, and in an instant he was upon her again, a wolf on his prey. Fingers ensnarled themselves in her dirty hair, yanking her upwards where she hung limply, fingers clenching an unclenching in agony behind her back. Taking his knife, La Bête pressed it readily to the smooth skin of her forearm, ignoring Eva’s weak whimper of protest before sliding down roughly. Her skin opened, splitting with sickening ease, and when the blood came bubbling up La Bête didn’t hesitate to dip his fingers into it, soaking each digit generously before yanking Eva closer. Her whimpers were pitiful, eyes squeezed shut in fright. Trembling she felt the monster grip something around her neck, and in the deepest recesses of her mind Eva realized that he was clutching her necklace. Her ear throbbed— he was screaming again, the words frustratingly foreign.

 _What does he want?_ Eva’s thoughts were broken, shattered into a thousand panicked fragments, and yet this one question managed to stand above rest. _What is he shouting about? What does he want? What? What?_ What _?_

Spittle flew from La Bête’s mouth as he screamed. “C'est cette putain de collier qu'il est si intèrésé sur! Ca contient de la pouvoir! Ca ta donné de la pouvoir! Moi, je m'en bas la couille! You’re lucky my master is paying me so handsomely for this, little fucking cunt, car si il n'a pas—!”  _[It’s this fucking necklace that he’s so damn interested in! It’s got power— it’s given you power! Me, I couldn’t give a fuck! ...because if he wasn’t—!]_

Her eyes flew open and she gasped so harshly that her side screamed and throbbed, a tantrum of pain. So great was her utter shock and horror that La Beta actually paused in his ranting.

“Je peux vous comprendre-comment peux— je—?” _[I can understand you— How can I—?]_ Eva murmured, oblivious to the way La Bête’s brows rocketed upwards in perfectly bushy arches. He shivered and dropped her suddenly, cursing to himself, and Eva felt the disappointment swell within her. He was speaking French again.

“Alors il avait raison à propos du collier-et à propos d’elle.” _[So he was right about the necklace— about her.]_ He muttered, pacing quickly away from where she lay in a broken heap. Curling in on herself, Eva let the tears leak, failing to stifle the sobs that wracked her throbbing body. Her jaw ached, her ribs screaming, and Eva was half certain that her ankle was sprained. Everything hurt. She didn’t dare move from the pooling blood that had begun to seep around her, terrified of the pain that would accompany the motions. La Bête spun suddenly, his body rigid as he stared with an open mouth at the door, and Eva had the distinct impression that something big was coming. There was a muffled shout and a thud from the other side of the double doors. La Bête growled and crossed to the door, locking it with a snick. Footsteps against creaking floorboards grew closer then, and desperately Eva tried to crawl away. He was coming back to kill her, she was sure of it. She was going to die here, in this hovel of a prison. He would kill her and she would never see her parents or friends again. An image flashed through her mind, contrasting so sharply with her dire situation that Eva nearly laughed— she didn’t, though. It would be too painful.

It was sunset on her favorite stretch of beach, low tide. The waves sung to her as they danced their endless, repetitive number, and alone she watched the seagulls dip low on the horizon as she sketched the sunset. She loved drawing sunsets; there was something so sad about them. So mysterious. The death of the day, of light. The waltz of sun and moon, the growing darkness of the nighttime— she loved it. Basked in it, even. Eva saw La Bête’s legs come into view dimly, watched through glazed eyes as he drew back his heavy boot, and smiled. Blood stained her teeth, she could taste it on her tongue— her lips. Curious thing, that her final thought before death would be of a sunset.

_I suppose now I’m a sunset, in a way. How fucking corny._

The boot connected solidly against her temple, and she saw only the darkness of oncoming night.

* * *

The first thing Arno saw was a wardrobe, as drab and boring as the rest of the old mansion was resplendently dusty. His eyes flicked right at the small waver of movement, and even as he took a wary step forward into the room his ears picked up on the groaning whine of a chair as a man as much bulk as he was height slipped almost tiredly into it. His aura was dark, with pitiless eyes and a spilling of greasy black hair that floated erratically about his heavy features from where it had previously been tied back tightly with a bloodred ribbon— which hung limply— almost as if it were disappointed in itself for failing such a simple task. With a delicacy that would put a cat to shame, Arno crossed to the opposing side of the desk the man reclined behind, a hand hovering so close to his sword that leather met leather as his gloved fingers swiped the handle uneasily. As if his sword could bring him some measure of assurance that this could be handled as smoothly and quickly as possible.

 _Fat chance. This will be messy._ Arno nearly smirked at the familiar echo of a long gone voice, distinctly feminine, that echoed in his thoughts. Nearly.

“Well?”

He blinked, slightly taken aback at the abruptness of the question, though it was hardly the strangest thing he’d ever witnessed. Arno allowed himself to straighten a measure, making sure to keep his knees bent and his weight on the balls of his feet. _You gotta be ready for anythin’, Pisspot._ Bellec would always grumble, the voice a ghost in his mind. _Anythin’._

“W _ell_ ,” Arno half singsonged, half sneered, unable to resist quirking a brow as his gaze roved the malevolent peculiarity before him. “No one informed me that the beast tired so easily. Tell me, are you sitting on the poor soul who was screaming so awfully, or did you just eat her whole?” He cast a derisive glance up and down the man’s girth. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were the latter.”

La Bête’s mouth was big— his lips thin and cracked— and set into a hard line against his stone face. His eyes bore twin holes into Arno’s, drilling through the back of his skull almost. They reminded him of the dead gaze of the gargoyle atop Notre Dame. Arno resisted the urge to outwardly shudder. The giant of a man shifted suddenly, sending Arno back a step into a light crouch, his sword half drawn. Great yellow teeth flashed upwards dangerously as La Bête yawned, and Arno was spared the embarrassment of his overreaction by the distraction of the ugly crackle and pop of a wet cough— which he quickly realized was the other man laughing.

“Oh, boy, you’re funny. Very funny.” And then he smiled.

Arno felt his stomach flip nastily. They were all long and twisted, his teeth. Jagged and pointing. Yellow slime was dribbled across his grin, dripping in thin, ropey arcs down onto his chin.

Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure how much control he truly had over the situation.

Suddenly, Arno felt something he hadn’t truly felt for two years long, lonely years: fear.

The stuff of nightmares— that was what this man was. Whether he’d been born with such a gut-twisting disfigurement or filed them to points himself, it really mattered not the method. All that remained was the madness. Either way, La Bête had a problem, a sickness which haunted, ensnared. He was a monster, and as much as Arno hated to admit it, a very small part of him suddenly felt ten years old again, staring at his darkened closet— afraid to look under his bed. Alone and afraid and unsure of what to do— a feeling that he hadn’t felt so bitingly sharp since he’d found his father sprawled across the floor at Versailles nineteen years ago.

“Let’s,” and here La Bête ran a fat tongue over those sharp teeth, the stringy yellow sticking like pus to it, and Arno found himself wondering how the man never sliced that fat pink worm open. The _‘s’_ ended in a hiss, like a snake giving a quiet warning. “Let’s not be rude, boy. You come into my home, kill my men, break into my office, and then dare accuse me of torture? Are you implying that I kidnapped this poor phantom girl?” He said it all very softly, almost as if he were speaking in a room with a sleeping person, or to a child to young to truly understand the gravity of the situation. Arno was beginning to wander if maybe he was sleeping— if this was all some strange dream. Whatever he’d imagined about La Bête— a raving lunatic, a thuggish brute— this was definitely not what he had in mind.

No, it was much worse.

He was cold and calculating. A killer. Arno would know, he was one too. And right now, La Bête was toying with him, a predator relishing in the distress of his prey.

“Well, I’m certainly not implying that she came willingly. Ten sous you didn’t win her over with your charming personality when you met either.” The words came out wittily enough, but Arno felt as if he had a cork plugging up his throat ( _that_ smile), tangling his words and suffocating him slowly. There was something in La Bête's gaze that ran deeper than the residing darkness— a warning. An invitation. A _promise_.

 _Keep it up,_ it whispered _. Keep running your fat mouth and see where you end up._ Please _, pleaseplease_ please _keep it up. Please._

“Leave.” La Bête said, the simple word weighted down with a threat that hulked like a warship beside a dingy. “Leave.” He repeated matter-of-factly, shifting so that his hands braced the armrests of his seat. “You have ten seconds.”

Arno’s eyes flickered this way and that, slipping past the whispering eyes and hardening frown, over the harsh black stubble of an imminent beard, to where one of La Bête's fingers tapped soundless against the chair’s arm. _One, two three,_ it beat out its slow rhythm.

He licked his lips. Not good. Not good at all. _Merde_. He had to think fast. 

“Who is she to France? The girl you’re hiding.” Arno bit out quickly. He didn’t dare risk closing his eyes, the concentration it would take to muster up his Vision would make him far too vulnerable. It was far too risky even for his honed senses.

 _Four_.

“You’ve targeted a broad spectrum, murdered generals and revolutionaries alike, all with one thing in common.” The words flew from his lips faster than he could think them, and all the while his long fingers worked at the small object hidden in his hand.

_Five, six._

“That they each had a foothold on France’s future. So why this woman?”

_Seven._

Time seemed to have sped up.

“Why any of this? Do you work alone, or is there a higher power in play?

_Eight._

Arno smirked, the viscous curve of his lips twitching upwards breaking tine’s rapidly quickening spell and pulling everything down to a crawl. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you’re just someone’s lap dog— no one dense ever got anywhere far on their own… Are you even housebroken?”

The chair clattered loudly onto its side as La Bête lunged. _He’s fast._ Far faster than Arno had originally anticipated. _Fuck, fast, tall and big? And he has swords for teeth. I should just slit my own throat and save him the trouble._ Arno ducked, La Bête soaring past the desk and over where Arno had been standing a moment before, only to land in a surprisingly graceful, lithe roll that brought him smoothly to his feet. _Always think ahead Pisspot..._ Bellec’s voice growled, unwanted, in  the echoes of his mind’s past. _It will save you more often than not._ Arno grinned devilishly at the man _before_ him, the two smoke bombs he’d been preparing whilst flooding La Bête with pointless questions sailed through the air soundlessly, landing with a tiny _tink chink_ on the wooden floorboards inches from where the beast stood. It all happened so quickly that the man hardly had time to take a step backwards before both bombs exploded with a loud _whu-oof_. La Bête roared, blinded, and Arno snapped his eyes shut. It had been hard, when he’d first started learning how to focus his Vision— his gift— but Bellec had been a brutal teacher. It was sticky situations like this that had Arno thanking the bastard’s rigorously unforgiving methods. The Vision snapped into place like a well worn glove, Arno’s gaze rapidly scanning the room that now swam with a blueish tint. The golden hue that swarmed La Bête was bold in its vibrance, but what caught Arno’s attention wasn’t the golden sunset color but another, darker blur. The same breathy blackness as before, floating shroud-like around a limp, tiny form slummed immovably.

Arno smirked. “Let me pretend to be surprised. She’s in the wardrobe.” There was a roar, indignant and frustrated, and Arno’s vision went swooping precariously back to La Bête. The man was swiping violently, the smoke suffocating in its potency. Blindly La Bête whirled, the gold that clung to him streaking smokily, the growl that escaped his lips distinctly animal— feral. But despite this Arno had the upper hand. Lunging forward from his crouch, he hurtled on boots that barley whispered against the floor towards his unsuspecting target. Reaching up, Arno pulled the swath of red fabric tied around his neck over his mouth and nose as he dove into the thick smoke, his Vision swimming in a dazzling sunset golden. La Bête whirled, roaring with the realization that he had been outsmarted, but it was too late. Kicking his leg out Arno dropped, sliding past La Bête as the brute slashed at him with a knife yanked from his wide belt. With a gloved hand Arno gripped the man’s ankle, allowing his momentum to help sweep La Bête's leg directly out from under him. Floundering in the thick smoke, the brute fell with a crash that rattled the ink well on his desk, among other things. Arno was on him in a flash, wasting no time in unsheathing his hidden blade and stabbing home. A knee jabbed upwards suddenly, knifing into his stomach so hard Arno felt his ribs splinter as the breath was forced from his lungs. Rolling, he scrambled unsteadily to his feet, an arm wrapped loosely around his midsection. Through the gloom of the thinning smoke, Arno watched as La Bête struggled to his feet— he didn’t dare try and get close to him again. In a split second decision Arno’s right arm raised, gears whirring and clicking as the small dagger slipped soundlessly from the phantom blade and escaped through the air. La Bête never saw it coming (shouldn't have) though his head whipped curiously— a gilded flash— as if he’d heard the blade being released from it’s holding. Arno’s eyes widened— _How? He must have, somehow, but_ — as La Bête jolted right at the last second, the phantom blade meant for the center of his skull instead slicing past the man’s left eye.

The brute’s bellow rattled deep in Arno’s bones, the shattering of the ink well off the desk and onto the floor nearly causing him to jolt in surprise. Instead Arno’s eyes were trained on La Bête, locked on the huge frame doubled over in agony, clutching at his eye as blood seeped from in between white fingers that reminded Arno of an oversized larva. Sizing up his hunched competition, the Assassin darted forward for the kill— there would never been a better time than this. One stride, two, and suddenly even hunched over La Bête seemed far taller than Arno’d last noticed. Approaching from the left, Arno made sure to hover in the man’s now very much larger blindspot. His hidden blade mirrored the flash and shine of the ruby red blood as it pattered to the messy floor, and on silent feet Arno flew forward, his knees bunching and his spine coiling like a snake’s as his gaze zoned in on where he would sink his blade.

It wasn’t until Arno’s left hand inclosed around La Bête’s neck that he became aware of his mistake. With a roar of victory the injured man had suddenly whirled, throwing him, and for half a moment Arno saw the white-and-pink pulp of his left eye, oozing from it’s socket, before the tables had turned and he was suddenly the one facing down a blade. His back hit the hard ground with a clatter that had Arno coughing and gasping for breath. Attempting to roll away, a foot was suddenly planted heavily on his stomach, forcing a groan from him.

_He tricked me. Bastard! I can’t believe I fell for that._

La Bête’s grin was practically dripping with sinister intentions, the mess of his left eye slippery where it was sprayed on his face. Blood dripped onto Arno’s cheek, his face remaining impassive, remaining eye shrieking daggers and hatred down at him.

“Initially, I was simply going to dispose of you quickly. You seemed a naive young boy, too stupid to know what he was getting himself into. But now,” Arno wrinkled his nose as La Bête leaned down. His rib was definitely cracked if not more— with every breath it pulsed like a thousand blades pricking his side. “now I know what you are.” Arno gritted his teeth as La Bête gripped his arm tightly, long nails slicing crescents that welled red into his skin, digging beneath his coat as his arm was twisted violently to reveal his hidden blade. La Bête chuckled darkly, malevolent grin spreading like spilt, rotted milk up his cheeks. “And I won’t be so kind as to end you swiftly.”

The knife slid softly over the skin of his throat, the pressure sending a panicked warning to Arno’s mind that shrieked to move, _movemove!_ But he couldn’t, not with the blade whispering against his flesh, not with La Bête hovering over him so closely. Arno forced himself not to swallow as a trickle of something warm and wet slithered down the side of his neck. He was definitely having a drink or three tonight _(that is, if it doesn’t spill out my neck)_. He needed to think, and quickly, before La Bête really got carried away. As if the brute could hear his thoughts, the tip of the knife slowly began to drift upwards, across his cheek to where it began to circle his left eye tauntingly. Arno forced himself not to blink, steadying his nerves as he glared at La Bête. _Think, think, think. Use what’s around you to your advantage. There’s always a solution, sometimes you just have to— a_ h _!_ The tip of the knife nicked at Arno’s flesh, pulling his skin open in an almost parallel line to where his old scar lay from nose to cheek.

“How’s about I poke this eye out, eh? An eye for an eye, boy.” La Bête laughed. “Of course,” He whispered, dropping lower so that he and Arno’s faces were a mere foot apart. “I would have the pleasure of being able to take yours much, much slower, and getting to here your lovely scream—” 

Arno grunted loudly, his fingers a blur before they found purchase in the hollow pulp that was La Bête’s left eye socket. Digging in, Arno scraped his nails along anything and everything, violent and desperate. La Bête shrieked, the sound so loud and high pitched it threatened to burst Arno’s ear drum. Scrambling away, the mountain of a man lashed out blindly in pain, the knife skittering away from Arno’s neck and through the air. Quickly the Assassin relinquished his hold on bone and gore, his fingers coming away slippery and bloodied. Wiping the oozing mess on his coat, Arno slipped out from beneath the bellowing man, who backed up until his legs hit the desk behind him with a clatter. It all happened so fast Arno barely had time to blink, let alone reassess his shamble of a plan. As if to add to the madness, suddenly the double doors burst back open with a pop. Arno whirled, and as one of the doors clattered off its hinges to the floor he barely had time to dodge out of the way before another guard had appeared, gun raised, and fired. Rolling from his somersault onto his feet fluidly Arno snatched the small letter opener from where it lay on the desk, sending it whistling into the new arrival’s throat with practiced precision. The guard dropped dead with the look of shock still growing in his vacant eyes. As he fell, a blur shot past the dead man and out the remaining door.

_La Bête._

Arno cursed, vaulting over the desk and nearly slipping on the puddle of blood that was sprayed across the dark wood, skidding to a halt into the hallway. At the far side, La Bête didn’t pause as he lunged head first out a window.

“You’ve got to be—” Arno sprinted forward, reaching the ajar window five seconds later. The body he expected to see lying far below was either nonexistent or invisible, the surrounding street corner vacant of everything save a cool breeze that lapped at Arno’s messy hair— his hood had fallen down in the fight. A single lamplighter was beginning to make his rounds, limping gate shuffling him at a snail’s pace down the cobbled street. Somewhere in the distance a dog’s bark boomed triumphantly, no doubt it had just found a piece of spoilt meat or killed a stray cat. Arno glowered at the dusky picture before him. It was as if his target had evaporated on the wind— not even a blood spatter could be seen. Arno’s Vision had much the same luck— the only thing his keen gaze picked up was the delicately fragmented golden cloud where La Bête had evidently landed. The trail disappeared soon after.

Arno could have cursed until his face turned blue— could have punched a wall until his knuckles cracked and bled and throbbed more violently than his ribs. From behind him there was a dull smack, then another. He spun around, ignoring the nagging disbelief that yanked persistently at his rationality, his gaze locking on the only thing visible from La Bête’s office. The source of the sudden thumping. _The wardrobe._ A shroud of black inside it was beating against the door. The girl— he’d all but forgotten her. _Honestly, who wouldn’t after that mess._ Arno groaned, letting out a long, puffed exhalation through his nose before retracing his steps. Perhaps this mission wasn’t a total failure— whoever La Bête had been torturing… _surely_ they would have some information on his target. One thing was for sure— Arno reached a hand up, his stained fingertips dancing delicately along the oozing cut that snaked straight across his throat. Though it wasn’t deep, it bled profusely, as if insisting that it was an injury to be reckoned with. He’d come far too close to breathing out of his neck.

Arno was more concerned over his bruised ego than anything else.

He slipped back into the room with much less trepidation the second time around. His guard remained up as he eyed the letter opener that wobbled in the dead thug’s throat, stepping over the body as he drew closer to the wardrobe. _Who could she be_ — he wandered— _this captive? What is her importance?_ He’d never seen anyone wreathed in such desolate black before— _what could it mean?_ — and with a blink he relinquished his Vision. Speculations of general’s daughters and far away duchesses kidnapped by La Bête vanished as soon as his hands enclosed around the sturdy handles of the wardrobe. A key poked halfway out of the keyhole almost meekly, and as the lock snicked open Arno wondered just how close the person on the other side of the oak doors had come to death before he’d barged in.  
A solid mass came shrieking from the wardrobe’s black innards, the noise high pitched in fright and shock as a mess of blond hair and pale skin came tumbling gracelessly at him. Arno stumbled backwards, arms encircling the shivering form as an agonized gasp escaped his lips, his ribs singing painfully. Catching her, he nearly dropped to his knees as the limp body in his arms sagged and his ribs twinged again, twisting his stomach sour. Staggering back a step, Arno steadied himself before turning his gaze to the girl in his arms.

“Are you alright? Miss, are you alright?”

She was breathing, he could feel it, hot and hushed against his collarbone, ghosting over the sticky blood that was drying on his throat. Her head rested against his shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her lashes flicker as she blinked. She muttered something unintelligible that sounded distinctly English, much to his surprise. _What's an English woman doing in some backwater district of Paris?_ “—A _h_ —!” A moment later Arno’s muscles ached as he tightened his grip around her thrashing body, her distressed gaze roving the room, horrified. The poor thing could only be looking for one person.

“He’s gone!” Arno said (could she even understand French?) repeating it again when she gasped something in English that was more question than anything else. Her words were too fast— to frantic for Arno to put them together despite the many years his stepfather had had him tutored in the language. But that had been ages ago. The girl thrashed again, horror clear in her trembling voice. She needed to calm down, speak slower.

A clatter from the hall behind them had Arno whipping his head around as best he could. Who knew if any more of La Bête’s thugs were skulking about. It wouldn’t be wise to try and flush them out, not with the girl, and especially not without his Vision. His eyes ached from such prolonged use of it— another skill he had let himself grow rusty with. Staring at the empty hall, Arno’s gut twisted ominously.

They needed to vanish.

Catching the girl’s eyes, Arno was momentarily stunned by the liquid blue of her irises. She was leaning into him again, hands clutched around his neck and buried in his hood— his coat. Her body sagged sharply and his arms shifted with it to support her better, drawing her closer to him. There was a flare of pain where her fingers brushed his neck, and Arno couldn’t help but notice how abnormally hot her skin was— almost scaldingly so.

Licking his lower lip, Arno cleared his throat before mustering up the faint recollections of his English lessons learnt so long ago it seemed. _Maybe I should have payed more attention to that tutor instead of trying to devise a way to knock his wig off…_

Slowly, almost painfully slow, Arno worked the words— twisted with disuse and foreign syllables— from his lips. “Y… You…” _Oh… Christ._ “D-ou you sp-ee… speeak?” _Now does that mean to talk or to sit? Or neither…_ “Speak.” _Fuck. Fuck English._ “Do you speak… _Een_ glish?” The words came out in a jumble, twisted and hilariously accented. Arno would have blushed in embarrassment if the look of pure awe that had dawned across the girl’s— _woman, she looks more like a woman to me_ — features hadn’t distracted him, her eyes blowing wide as her jaw dropped. A shaky breath escaped soft lips, and reaching up a bloodied, bruised hand the woman brushed away a tear that had leaked from the corner of her eye before catching his gaze meaningfully.

“You fucking bet I do.” She whispered.


	5. Cinq

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It hurts,” Eva gasped, whimpering loudly when the man’s gloved fingers grazed the oozing cuts on her arms gingerly. Her bloody lips parted to reveal chattering teeth. Her tiny frame shivered and shook uncontrollably.  
> “I know,” the man whispered, and something in the smudged scar that wrote its way from his cheekbone to his nose tattled to Eva’s wispy mind that he wasn’t lying. That he knew of pain, of hurt. Of agony. She wanted to ask him how he'd dealt with it, but couldn't find the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Not really much to say here accept I hope you like the chapter! Shoutout to **xXDrawingFanXx** for the translations, you're seriously the best! Also, big thanks to you kudo-ers and commenters, they make my day :D
> 
> \- Chapter Music:  
>  _* Breathless - Gustavo Santaolalla_  
>  _* Books of Grievances - Sarah Schachner_  
>  \- Morg
> 
> * * *

“I am a witch. And witches burn.”  
\- Josephine Angelini, _Trial By Fire_

 

_**Date: Unknown.** _

When she opened her eyes the first thing she thought of was death. The second was a name, floating in front of eyes sightless from the black surrounding her.

_Christopher Jennings._

They’d sat next to one another for half the year in fifth grade— the key word being _‘half’_. Eva could still remember the stupid smirk on Jennings’ face when Eva had wished him a merry Christmas, the red and green ribbons in her hair bouncing as she hovered on the balls of her feet in front of his desk. She had been trying to be nice— ‘Sissy Chrissy’ was always getting beaten up and bullied by the sixth grade boys. He sat alone at lunch, and no one was ever there to pick him up at his bus stop after school, much to her mortification. In short, Eva supposed she’d felt bad for the guy. Unfortunately, no one had informed her that _sissy_ rhymed with _pissy_. Which was exactly what the little shit always was.

“There’s no such thing as Christmas ‘cause there’s no such thing as God. It’s all made up, an’ when you die you don’t go to either of the H’s.” 

Eva had blinked, her eyes wide as she’d scratched at the back of one of her white lace socks with a scuffed black shoe while balancing on a stalky leg. “Don’t be silly Chris,” She’d warbled unsurely, eyes slipping around the room for help. Two desks down Trevor Martin had been whispering quickly into Missy Lipkintz’s ear. She had giggled into her palm dramatically before her and Trevor had rolled their eyes away from Eva’s wide, pleading ones. So much for that. Eva had almost whimpered. All she’d wanted was for Chris to say thank you, maybe smile and wish her the same. Not this. “Of course Christmas is real— haven’t you ever heard of Santa Claus?”

Chris had stood, leaning over the desk far enough that his lanky shadow had all but swallowed Eva’s petite frame up. Jamming a finger in her face, he’d hissed, “Santa ain’t real, go ask your parents that one, stupid. Ask em’ why you always get sent to beddy-bies so early on Christmas Eve.” Eva’s legs trembled in their snow white stockings, but even then there was something in the way her spine was always straightened, her shoulders back and chin raised defiantly— something so airily noble in such a small, young thing her made the students fear her and the teachers revere her— she never was one to be intimidated.

Eva had narrowed her eyes and tilted her head back so that she could frown up at Chris, her chin tilted so far up in the air it looked she was trying to skewer him on its bony, sharp point. “You said you don’t go to Heaven or aech, eeh double hockey sticks… so where then?”

Chris shrugged, the motion a lame attempt to cover up his shock at Eva’s firm voice and hard eyes, the way her little frame hadn’t bowed under his towering height.  
“Nowhere. There’s nothing, _duhh_. It’s just black. Like those nights when you don’t dream.”

Eva supposed that at the time she’d felt a small shiver of horrified fear at such a dismal prospect, sure, but nothing much more than that. Pity had been the dominant emotion, overwhelming in it’s potency. It must have been the sight of him, standing there at least a foot taller than her, with hunched shoulders and puckered, pale lips that looked like they spent more days stretched in the grimace of a sob than of a smile. A boy so incredibly tall for his age, but in her mind’s-eye seeming to not even reach her little white knees he was so small. Pity, Eva had realized, was probably something Christopher Jennings could do with a lot more of. It was the first time such a peculiarly adult-like cord of compassion would strike her young heart, though certainly not the last, which might have been why her classmates and schoolteachers always seemed so very fond of her. Protective, even. Which was no real surprise, though Eva had always wondered upon it. Benevolently warmhearted souls were often embraced in such a way, after all.

Placing a hand on his arm, she’d held it there even as Chris had flinched back as if electrified.

“Merry Christmas, Chris.”

The day back from break, Christopher Jennings had moved his seat across the room, where he hid himself from her gaze behind a stack of shredded notebooks and Eva had all but forgotten the black sting that had come with terrible things he’d said to her.

Until, for some odd reason, now. Curious how those things tended to work out.

 _Fuck, he was right. That bastard was right._ Eva’s panic levels were a quarter short of hitting overdrive. The blackness was shockingly cold and tight around her, like a hulking wave that suddenly swept her from her board during a night surf, quick and stealthy and often deadly—especially if a surfer was anywhere near the jagged rocks towards the left side of the little beach Eva frequented. A sudden image of herself— coherent and lost in the sightless abyss before her, doomed to wade through the darkness for eternity— in the overwhelming blackness had Eva gasping in snatches of air by the half-second. She would have preferred an unconscious stupor to this; to be unaware of her fate than face the monstrosity of it as it strangled her. Eva moaned and her head lulled forward, throbbing so painfully that she whimpered and clutched at her temples, leaning until the skin of her forehead bumped and scraped softly against something solid. The clunk of the wood as it reverberated from the shock of her impact had Eva flying backwards violently, her lips parted in a silent gasp of realization as her injuries jostled painfully, complaining in the multitude of throbs and aches that was any wound’s song.

It came to her out of the darkness, floating like some huge, purplish gray thundercloud.

_The wardrobe._

The huge one that had sat inconspicuously to the side of her captor’s office. Eva struggled to sit up from her slumped position against the thick wood siding, her body threatening to fall to pieces from any single movement as her head swam. She was locked in the stupid wardrobe. _You’ve gotta be kidding me right now. Could this get any worse? Oh shit, why did I ask myself that?_

There was something wet and sticky sliding down her right arm, wrapping warm, groping fingers greedily around her wrist and palms before dripping off to putter to the wardrobe floor dully. Blood, it was everywhere, on her arms, her legs— Eva whimpered as a trickle of it wandered down her temple, slipping quietly past her ear. The smell of it, metallic and overwhelming, was enough to turn her stomach into queasy knots. Reaching up a shaking hand, Eva patted the wall of the wardrobe, desperately seeking out a knob or a handle. Her slippery fingers danced across a coldness that bit at the heat of the blood coating her fingers, and with a pitiful grunt Eva turned the handle and shoved. The wood creaked, the door giving way to a small sliver of light before shuddering to a halt. Locked, Eva sat back with a frustrated groan that twisted itself into a hitching, agonized gasp as a lance of something deep and gaping and bloody screamed out of her side.

Someone— La Bête, she would bet her meager health on it— had stuffed her in here and locked the doors tight— left her to bleed out slowly in the suffocating dark. It was like in those TV shows her and her dad liked to watch on Sunday nights— the murder files ones where the victim was almost always disposed of in a gruesome, nightmare inducing way. And here she was, smothered in the sticky stench of her own blood, body hot as a griddle and twice as sliced up as a steak, thrown into the dark like rubbish to rot slowly. _Will he even come back for me, or am I in here for good— until the end?_ The thought sent shivers of ripe disbelief rippling down Eva’s spine. _No way._ There was no _fucking_ way she was going to die like this. Shifting back, Eva ignored the whimpers of agony her cuts and bruises emitted, the persistent scream of her side, balancing on her bloody hands as she lifted an aching leg— her left ankle was throbbing so heavily it was beginning to rattle her teeth, and so she opted for her right leg to do the job— and summoning her remaining strength, Eva kicked out at the doors as hard as she could.

A roar thundered from the other side of the wood, sounding so much like a bear’s that Eva faltered, her foot hitting the door only half as hard as she intended before sliding slowly down the seam in the middle. As quickly as she could Eva shifted herself, gasping as a hand fluttered to her side before pressing her ear to the small opening in-between the doors. There was a grunt and a clatter, sounds of scuffling and the sudden crash that had the entire wardrobe shaking like a cat that had just been doused in freezing water. A sudden, pregnant silence filtered into the contents of the wardrobe that lasted for only a moment before someone gasped in pain. More scuffling, the squeaking of floorboards— Eva’s free hand had unconsciously floated to her mouth, her gaze following the sounds even in the pitch black of her wooden cage. It was obvious that there was a fight going on only feet from where she sat _(either that or La Bête is having a serious spaz attack right now, probably saw himself in a mirror…)_ , but who was it that would even think to challenge such a monster? _Maybe one of his guards pissed him off and he’s beating them to death…_ The notion made her feel sick enough to vomit, which was the last thing she needed at the moment. She tried not to imagine the mammoth of a man ripping into some poor soul as she sat helpless and dying in the wardrobe. _Kind of like what he almost did to me,_ Eva wanted to add, but forced the thought down, her imagination breathing life into the image of La Bête roaring as he tore the eyeballs, dripping crimson, from some poor soul’s soul. Why had hadn’t killed her, why had she been stuffed into the wardrobe unconscious?

An agonized scream pitched itself into the darkness with Eva, it’s intensity causing her to gasp, ducking her head and covering her ears in fright. Her limbs shook as she squeezed her eyes shut, the mess of blood on her arms and hands sticking grossly to her hair and smearing on her cheeks. Forcing her head down and pressing her hands against her ears as hard as she could, Eva could only focus on the wheezy rasp of her rapid breathing, her eyes roving sightlessly in the darkness as from outside there was another great roar and a thud as something hit the ground hard. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be back at Versailles; at the hotel; surfing with her friends; _home_. _Wake up, wake_ up! _Wakeupwakeupwakeup!_

A voice, laden with contempt despite it’s muffled quality, penetrated the wardrobe. Eva could only sit in muted confusion as the two Frenchmen (at least she assumed the other was a man) hissed and spat at one another. The conversation reminded her, in a strange way, of the ocean. It’s slow undulation, the pauses between each exchange of words like the lull between white capped waves. The silence unnerved her— _what’s happening out there?_ — and shuffling onto her knees awkwardly Eva pressed her sticky hands as hard as she could against the two doors and pushed, her left eye slipping into the shaft of light that illuminated the darkness, and she resisted the urge to whine as her side stretched painfully. The small gap between the doors didn’t allow much wiggle room vision-wise, but a wide birth wasn’t something Eva needed in particular, for directly in front of her lone eye, perhaps two yards away, lay a man in a strange dark blue coat. And on top of him was La Bête, hunched like a vulture over its next feast.

The brute was whispering something to the man, who didn’t so much as shift under the heavy weight atop his body, a knife glittering prettily against the red stain of his neck. Eva noted, it would take at least three of the man to even come close to the monster that was La Bête, and that was just length wise. Suddenly, and quick and calculated as a shark breaching beneath a seal (something which Eva had witnessed only once, accidentally) the smaller man’s hand snapped up, leather-gloved fingers digging unmercifully into the white-pulped socket that was La Bête’s oozing left eye. Drops of blood and eye goop spurted with the force of the attack. The beast screamed.

Eva flew back, smacking her head on the wood, heaving and gagging. The pain that sand through her body was numbed by her wide-eyed terror. Her stomach flipped warningly and she gagged twice, nearly loosing what little food it contained. A hand flew to cover her mouth, and curling into as best a ball as she could Eva shut her eyes, welcoming the warmth of the darkness between her lids as the explosive pain in her head throbbed.

_I need to get out of here, I need to leave before that maniac rips my eyes out too. Fuck._

As quietly as she could Eva rolled onto her back, her long legs a tangled mess. It was much harder work trying to move about the small space while trying to be as quiet as possible— outside Eva could just barely hear the distant _thuda-thud_ of someone running. She peaked out through the sliver between the doors before standing up, finding the room vacant save for the feet and legs of what appeared to be one of La Bête’s guards.

 _Hopefully he’s dead._ Eva thought, _or just tired and taking a nap._ Pausing a moment, she balanced on shaky, trembling legs, her head swimming and her ankle muttering an angry, red hot throb. For a moment she was afraid to start pushing, afraid that if— _when_ — she broke out of her miniature prison she’d find the guard eyeless. Afraid that either deadly man lay in wait for her, ready to pounce as soon as she stumbled into the apparent emptiness. A trap. The idea nearly had her curling back up into a ball. _I can’t just stay in here forever,_ Eva reminded herself sternly. Her wounds were beginning to hurt worse, and she hadn’t stopped bleeding from her arm yet— as a matter of fact, Eva wasn’t entirely sure that her arm was the only place she’d been sliced open. Her side was spluttering as it coughed out blood, coating her shirt and skin in a wash of rouge blush. It was beginning to puddle around her like a tiny gore pond. Eva blinked suddenly, slowly, her head wobbling on her shoulders. Her head was beginning to feel like a balloon that had been filled with a little too much helium, and her whole body was shaking.

The first time she threw her weight against the door, the entire wardrobe shuddered and Eva feared it would come crashing down, trapping her inside for good. Shoving the anxious dread that spiked at the thought to the back of her mind, Eva tried again. The third try had her accidentally yelping in pain as her injuries jostled harshly. But it was working— the door had cracked and splintered, and even if breaking through the lock wasn’t an option, smashing her way through the wood might be. _If that guy… on Vine can smash through a door… so can I damnit._ Taking as deep a shuddering breath as she could muster, Eva drew back, counting to three before throwing herself as hard as she could at the weakened wood, her eyes squinched shut and braced for the ripping agony that would follow.

A soft snick was the only indication that something was amiss. Her shoulder hit the solid wood and suddenly Eva was flying forward, the brilliance of the dying afternoon light coupled with the awful sensation of falling pulling a shriek from her blood-crusted lips. Something firm and strong encircled her body, catching her before she could hit the ground and pulling Eva into a solid mass that faltered backwards for only a moment before righting itself. Dazed with shock and pain, Eva barely managed to catch the tail end of a question— of course in French. Blinking, she shifted her gaze upwards, past a handsomely strong jawline and sharp cheekbones until her eyes swept over dark eyes, their depths both questioning and concerned. The man from before, the one who had popped La Bête’s eye— Eva’s mind went from zero to sixty. If he was here, holding her _(and not, you know, my bloody eye)_ than _where_ was—?

“Where is he?” Eva almost moaned, the terror that had lain dormant in her while she’d been trapped in the wardrobe flaring to life like a dried piece of wood catching a flame. Her gaze roamed the room frantically, almost too afraid of what it might find. She needed to get out of here, out of the grasp of this stranger— who could quiet possibly murder her— and to safety, the police maybe, if she could find them. Or perhaps she’d finally wake up from this asylum of a coma that Eva was still half-sure she was trapped in. The man’s grip tightened like iron around her body as she squirmed, her movements sluggish from pain and a sudden tiredness that swept like an ocean storm across her frame. It was heavy, weighted like a smothering blanket too massive to shove off. Still, Eva struggled as best she could, snapping her left elbow up into the man’s rip, which caused him to grunt loudly in pain.

“Please, you have to let me go!” She babbled frantically, mostly unaware of the words that flowed from her lips. “He’ll kill me, he’ll kill me,” Eva almost sobbed, her limbs aching as she struggled. “Where did he _go_?!”

Over the din of her panic Eva slowly came to the realization that the man holding her was saying something, repeating it over and over as she struggled, his voice— decidedly calm despite Eva’s racket— raised slightly so that it wasn’t lost under her desperate pleas.

“Il s'est échappé.” He said. “Il s'est échappé!” _[He escaped!]_ Eva’s arms abruptly sagged, her legs nearly giving out on her as she wilted into the man. She didn’t understand him, not really, but there was something in the composure of his voice— a reassurance in the way his arms held fast to her waist— the way he looked at her with those dark eyes. There was a coldness about them, a detachedness that lurked in the rims of his gaze, sharing the limited space with what emotions managed to break through to the surface. It took Eva a moment to realize that the man was staring at her, and a second more to get swept up into the intenseness of what she could only describe as a golden hued, prismatic jade. Eva felt her brow stretch downwards of its own accord as the shaft of light that had fallen across the man’s face flickered out of existence, no doubt taking refuge behind some thick cloud, and the raw green of his eyes was lost again in the shadows.

His arm drifted upwards slowly, the movement as deliberately calculated as if he were trying not to frighten off a spooked horse, moving so that it rested solidly across the space between her shoulder blades, his other hand on the small of her back holding her firmly to him. _He better not let go,_ Eva thought groggily, her head spinning like a Tilta-Whirl ( _“Titla-hurrrrl,” Riley’s voice ghosted playfully_ ). _I’d probably fall if he wasn’t holding me this tightly._ As if in agreement, her left ankle pulsated sorely, the feeling angry and white hot. Out of the corner of her vision Eva caught the man’s tongue run the length of his bottom lip slowly, almost thoughtfully, and a shiver sped down her spine, and lower still.

 _Seriously, fucking seriously?_ Disgusted at her own arousal— _it is such a fucking awful time for that shit to go down_ — Eva didn’t notice the deepening frown that only continued to grow on the man’s face— _like this guy just ripped out some fucker’s eyes and I’m over here going weak at the knees because his face is pretty_ — until his lips were struggling to form words and his voice faltered in his throat.  
“Y…You…”  
Eva blinked blearily in awe, conscious to the fact that a pool of her own blood was beginning to form beneath her.  
“D-ou you spee- speeak?”  
_Is he asking me, or just unsure himself?_  
“Speak.”  
_Just unsure, I figured._  
“Do you speak… _Een_ glish?”  
Eva was dumbfounded. Nonplused, her jaw unhinged, her mouth hanging open in pure astonishment. Did he just…? There was a tinge of rogue coloring the man’s cheeks, and distantly Eva wondered if he were embarrassed for his botched English.  
_English._  He’d _spoken_ English! Finally, _finally_.

Eva’s lashes fluttered, her vision blurring as tears threatened to spill. With a shaky breath she reached a blood-soaked hand up, wiping at the moisture that dribbled from the corner’s of her vision and accidentally smearing blood across her already red-caked cheeks. Finding her voice, Eva managed to whisper out a small reply before her throat closed up, clogged with emotion, and all she could do was stare at the man with round, glassy eyes.

“You fucking bet I do.” She’d uttered the words slowly— partially for him and partially because Eva wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep herself awake— each syllable punctured with a fervor whose roots trailed through veins and wrapped tight around her aching heart. He was going to help her, she could feel it. If this stranger had went through so much trouble with her already— _instead of, you know, dumping me to the side or killing me_ — and was now attempting to _speak_ with her (even though it clearly was a bit of a struggle for him), then… _Then- then he must be here to rescue me._ It made sense, when Eva really thought about it. Maybe. She wasn’t too sure anymore, the tail-ends of her thoughts taking on a wispy, fuzzed quality. Eva blinked slowly, leaning heavily into the man’s body. She shut her eyes to the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her, briefly grappling with the possibility of hurling again. Everything felt like it had been set to a crawl— or perhaps it was just her that was slowing down.

“Did… my… parents send… you?” Eva slurred. A pattering of blood hit the floor, and a moment later she went limp with a weak sigh. The man asked her something, his words muffled and distant, and it was all Eva could do to clutch at his coat with her remaining strength in a declining attempt to keep herself upright. She was too _tired_ , her body too hurting, limbs aching and throbbing, cuts and gashes seeping red. The world became a whirling motley of rainbow colors as suddenly Eva’s legs slipped swiftly out from beneath her, and faintly she wondered how hard she would hit the ground as it rushed to meet her. Except it never drew any closer. Instead, the stained floorboards ran horizontally, its smooth surface winking a dark, staining crimson that appeared in giant splotches every few moments.

 _I’m going mad…. Just like Alice…_ Eva thought deliriously. _Only this is no freakin' Wonderland._

The man made it across the room before she realized she was being carried, and that was only because he’d paused to shift her in his arms, the backs of her knees falling snuggly against his arm.

“Mademoiselle?” He asked, and Eva groaned softly, her head pounding all of a sudden.

Her lack of response seemed to have an effect on the man— suddenly the floorboards had vanished into the dusty carpet of the hall, and watching it fly past was beginning to make Eva sicker than she already felt. Shutting her eyes weakly, she focused on the steady staccato of her rescuer’s breathing, the way it tickled her arm faintly from where she had it slung around his neck. Both her hands clung to his coat— his back— like it was her lifeline. They moved down the hall like twin shadows, slinking rapidly towards the stairwell that Eva had been dragged up only hours before. Her ribs ached with every step he took, and with each passing second Eva wasn’t sure if she were going to scream in agony or faint— or both in quick succession. Her left ankle was beginning to go numb, her face a hot, puffy mess. Despite the tortured throes of misery her body recoiled from, Eva herself was beginning to feel like she was floating on a cloud. Blinking hazily, she barely let out a gasp of pain as suddenly the man stuttered to a stop at the top of the staircase. Eva caught a quick glimpse of a deep red slit, running like the reddened gulch of the Grand Canyon across a pale neck drenched in drying blood— _he’s hurt…_ — and then she was spinning rapidly, like a runaway carousel. A rattle and a crash emanated from the floor below, and through the haze that clogged her thoughts Eva heard the distinct shouting of gruff voices, feet pounding as they hit the creaky floorboards, the stairs— The man was cursing violently under his breath in French. Eva recognized one word, _merde_ , that popped up once or twice… She was shifted in his arms again, gently, lolling head resting on his shoulder, her ear brushing the hood that he’d just yanked over his head. Arms still encircled his neck, and her body was held against his tightly, his opposing arm supporting her weight beneath her knees. The whole readjustment took place in little under a second.

With a huff of breath the man took off down the hall, the surprising smoothness of his swift gait doing little to help Eva’s wounds as they were jostled enough for her to gasp loudly and utter a small cry through the thickening fog of her lucidity.

“Shh,” came the low voice in her ear, “Ne les laissez pas vous entender.” _[Do not let them hear you.]_

 _He’s speaking French again_ , Eva mused foggily. _He seems to find it so difficult to speak Engl—_

There was a shout from the far end of the hall. Without hesitation, the man holding her kicked open the floor-to-ceiling window and jumped. If Eva would have had half her senses even mildly close-by at that point, she would have screamed. And cursed. Now, she only sighed faintly as the wind rushed past, clawing at cuts and scrapes and ripping at her clothes and hair. In the breath of a second that was granted to them as they fell, her rescuer grunted with the effort of turning with her in the air, positioning himself with his back to the ground, wrapping his arms around her and holding Eva tightly to his body. _Like a shield,_ her mind whispered, _he’s trying to be a shield. Silly french fry…_

Whatever they landed in was a musky smelling yellow that was unbearably itchy. An explosion of pure white-hot agony racing across her entire frame nearly thrashed the voice out of her, but still Eva managed to cry out against the rough stubble of the man’s jaw, breath hitching and eyes watering in the severity of her dolor as they rolled upwards into blackness. She floated like that, lost in the chasm-like safety net of unconsciousness, for what seemed like eternity and half a second all at once.  
When she peeled her eyes open again, Eva was faintly aware that they were moving quickly, though this time she had no sight of the ground. Head resting against his shoulder, her watery gaze danced lazily between the starlit sky and the details of the man’s face, nearly obscured by the nighttime black and the hood which hung low around his shrouded features.

_Oh, you’re… handsome._

He looked at her, every few minutes or so, as if he were afraid she’d pass out on him again. Or worse. Wherever they were headed, it was being reached through a number of twisting, sickeningly dizzying alleys. The stench of blood hung heavy around them nauseatingly. Something was tied around her stomach, the pressure of it almost unbearable against her side. Eva moaned, resisting the urge to empty her stomach as her eyes rolled nauseously before closing.

“Ne fermez pas vos yeux.” _[Do not close your eyes.]_ Her rescuer said once before quickly correcting himself. “Do not... shut ey _ees_ ,” he breathed— almost hissed— his own gaze flickering rapidly between Eva’s drooping lids and the path ahead of him. “Restez réveillée. Stay awake.” It seemed like they’d been moving forever, Eva wrapped up in the strange man’s arms limply, eyes slipping shut with each few steps. It was dark, even with her eyes open. What was worse, the night had stolen the last of the sun’s warmth from her limbs, but despite that Eva felt herself shaking like a leaf from the heat that scalded within her. The man must have felt it as well, for his grip on her flinched, wavering for a gasping second before tightening. “Stay awake,” he repeated, before suddenly swinging out into a wide street illuminated by peculiar looking street lamps. _Where’s the bulbs?_ Eva wondered.

Missing, like her.

A door banged open somewhere to their left, the raucous cackles that sailed through its opening rattling like empty tin cans against the inside of Eva’s skull obnoxiously. She gasped and moaned pitifully, the sound more a squeak than anything. Her temples burned hotter than the rest of her body. Eva was petrified— they felt as if they were going to burst at any moment, the way a chestnut would over an open flame. A shuddering breath misted from her body and her grip on the man’s neck faltered, a hand sliding along his hood only to fall, useless and dangling, to sway with each step he took.

“Est -ce que monsieur ce et sa pute veulent bien boire quelque chose?” _[Would the gentleman and his whore fancy a drink?]_ A scratchy feminine voice caterwauled. The man kept walking, ignoring whatever had been asked of him.

“Il est fort possible qu'il veut la baiser, pas boire avec elle.” _[Probably wants to fuck the bitch, not drink with her.]_ Someone shouted, and a burst of drunken giggling erupted behind them. The mocking laughter followed them into the darkness of another alley, and in the shadows Eva could hear the sound of her blood pooling on her hanging fingers, its dripping echoing off the close-knit walls. Her breathing was ragged, her roving eyes welling with tears. She was scared. So, _so_ scared. Her body was nearly writhing as hot blood hissed down quaking, goose-pimpled arms and legs. Ribs crackled, slashes and scrapes sang in agony. Unconsciously Eva’s right hand had buried itself in the soft fabric of the man’s hood, fingers snarled in its blue pattern, clutching it tight with every spasm that tormented her body. Their intervals were growing alarmingly closer— she could barely count the seconds between them.

Suddenly she was swung left as the man turned into a quiet side-street. In the light of one of the unconventional street lamps Eva was lowered to the ground slowly. A hand guided her head gently to the cobblestones, her fingers slipping from where it clutched at the man’s hood, pulling it down, arm falling heavily to her side. The man didn’t bother to fix his hood, a spilling of soft brown hair framing his features. With the light behind him, he looked somewhat like an angel. Eva could have giggled at the idea, if it weren’t for the horrible pain in her side. What had happened again? Someone had smashed her ribs to splinters? _He’s definitely hot enough to be an angel._ Eva noted, eyes floating over blurred features, a loopy smile fighting to swim across her lips. The action was cut down almost immediately, a violent stab of pain striking its way across her side. Eva screamed, the sound exhausted and feeble, her hands scrabbling at where the man was prodding her injury tentatively. Her fingers intertwined roughly with his in a desperate effort to intervene, to pry them away from the angry pulsating of her ribs, breath rattling loudly in her parched throat as she struggled to summon enough energy to move her aching limbs.

“Stop,” Eva wheezed, her voice so hysterically high and pinched she nearly suffocated on the word. “Stop, _stop_.”

His lips were moving, but all she could hear was a faint buzzing drone, muffled like she were weighted down at the bottom of the ocean. He gripped her arms solidly, her thrashing efforts pathetically sluggish, and a gloved hand came up to brush her hair back from where it clung to the sweat-slicked skin of her brow.

“Shh,” the man hushed her, moving to cup her cheek. He was leaning over her now, a knee buried in the dirt, his jade green eyes flickering from Eva’s down to her body, assessing her wounds.

“It hurts,” Eva gasped, whimpering loudly when the man’s gloved fingers grazed the oozing cuts on her arms gingerly. Her bloody lips parted to reveal chattering teeth. Her tiny frame shivered and shook uncontrollably.

“I know,” the man whispered, and something in the smudged scar that wrote its way from his cheekbone to his nose tattled to Eva’s wispy mind that he wasn’t lying. That he knew of pain, of hurt. Of agony. She wanted to ask him how he'd dealt with it, but couldn't find the words. Her rescuer hesitated then, licked his lips before they molded themselves into a frown when Eva let her eyes flutter closed. Her breathing was beginning to bottom out, the shallow rasps carving aching pits in her lungs. There was a ripping sound, and Eva hardly flinched at the surprisingly soft texture of cloth that had begun to swath itself around her bleeding arm. Blearily she peeled her eyes open, watching the handsome face deep in concentration as the man wrapped a former piece of his red cravat tightly around the gaping gash that jack-knifed down her arm. It had been bleeding sluggishly long enough for Eva’s head to lull, her mind a swirl of befuddled, disoriented fog. The smallest of yelps slipped past her lips when the bandage was pulled tight, robbing her of any breath to scream when the man over her wrapped the remaining cloth around her side and knotted it tightly. Her mouth worked like a fish, eyes slitted in pain, and faintly Eva though she heard him muttering apologies before she blacked out again.

When she awoke, the stars were winking back at her. They were moving down an uncrowded street lit faintly with only a lamp or two, the brisk jostle in the man’s step suggesting that wherever they were, it was close to their final destination. Eva could hardly feel anything anymore. Her eyes fluttered shut.

“Stay with me.” The voice muttered— no, _commanded_ — breath tickling the wisps of hair that floated around her ear. Eva suddenly felt herself hovering, loose and free, her legs dancing as they knocked together, her arms dangling loosely in the chilly air. Strong arms held her.  
“Restez avec moi, do not sl _eea_ p.” _[Stay with me.]_

The wind whipped at her hair and Eva had the distinct sensation that they were flying, zipping through the tangled slipstream of air as fast as they possibly could.

_I’ve always wanted to fly._

Someone was speaking to her from far off— perhaps they were stuck back on the ground?

“Restez avec moi, on y est presque— Stay with me. You must keep awake.” _[You can make it, we’re almost there.]_

“I can’t stay, I’m flying.” Eva murmured dreamily, or maybe she only thought it, warm fingers flexing in the breeze. Something wet and hot slithered between them, threatening to stick them together. It smelt of metal and death. There was a distant clatter and crash, followed by a high pitched yelp.

 _Thunder._ Eva smiled. _A storm._ She loved storms.

Someone was shouting down below, over the banging and the clattering.

“Mon Dieu! Arno, tu as presque foutu la porte en l'air!” _[Jesus! Arno, you almost kicked the door off its hinges!]_

_Maybe they didn’t like thunder._

“Qui-est? Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?” _[Who is that? What’s happening?]_

Definitely not.

She was twirling, spinning and jerking left and right. Caught in the storm.

“Célestine, cherche Madame Gouze. Vite! Cours!” _[Célestine, find Mrs. Gouze. Quickly! Run!]_

Someone was sprinting. Eva could hear their heavy soles against the ground, even from her height. They’d never be able to outrun the gale, not on foot. Not without flying. From somewhere in the distance there was a commotion, and distinctly Eva had the feeling that they were rising. Someone’s boots— the man’s— clattered against stairs rapidly, and she was jostled.

“Arno-mais c'est une femme?! Qu'est t-il arrivé?” _[Arno— Is that a woman?! What happened?]_

“Oh mon Dieu, elle saigne partout!” _[Oh my God, she’s bleeding everywhere!]_

“Bonne observation Gouze.” _[An excellent observation, Gouze.]_ The man above her bit back dryly. “On doit réagir vite, elle meurs. Augustin, aide moi avec elle.” _[We must move quickly, she is dying. Augustin, help me with her.]_

There was his voice again, as rich and smooth as his face was handsome. Was he flying with her? He had to be. He sounded much closer than the others.

_At least I’m not alone._

The thunder was coming in rapid succession now, a clatter-thud, clatter-thud that rocked at Eva’s body and threatened to spin her into oblivion. How she clung on was an everlasting mystery.

“Que Dieu me sauve. Ta veste est couverte de son sang.” _[Lord help me. Your coat is covered in her blood.]_

“Ça m'appartient aussi. Je vais très bien.” _[It’s mine as well. I’m fine.]_

“Est-ce qu'elle est morte?” _[Is she dead?]_

Another voice— younger. Female. Were they all caught in the whirlwind tempest?

“Non Célestine.” _[No Celestine.]_ Her rescuer grunted, sounding faintly annoyed and anxious and afraid all at once.

Something soft and secure pressed into her back, her head slipping into the delicate hollow of a fluffy suppleness. Her entire body went lax.

_I’ve landed on a cloud. Holy… shit._

“Ah alors pour toi ça va, hein? Qu'est-ce qui s' est passé?” [Oh you’re fine are you? What in God’s name happened out there?] The woman snapped. “On dirait qu'elle s'est prit la guillotine mais ça n'a pas marché!” [She looks like she took on the guillotine and lost!]

“Elle a bien survecue pour quelq'un qui s'est fait bien tortuer par La Bête, Madame Gouze.” _[She pulled through very well for someone facing La Bête's torture, Madame Gouze.]_ The man said quietly.

“La Bête? C'était ça ta mission? Merde! Peux-tu la sauver Charlotte? ” _[La Bête? That was your mission? Shit. Can you save her Charlotte?]_

Somewhere, someone hummed doubtfully. “Augustin…” A pause, redolent in its musky heaviness. “Sa blessure doit être cauterizée, surtout celle-là.” There was a faint pressure on her side that had Eva gasping. “Oh…” _[Her wounds need to be cauterized, especially this one. Oh…]_

The man above her grunted, the sound fainter. “Faite sure que ça arrive, elle contienne des informations précieux sur La Bête.” _[Make it happen, she has valuable information about La Bête.]_

Thunderclaps. Footsteps. He was fading, his voice more delicately distant by the second, like a wisp of cloud dissolving under the sun’s hot rays. Eva felt his absence in the sharp pang of her ankle, her arms, her side. Had her rescuer fallen, or merely floated away?

“Come… back…” She croaked, her plea lost under the panic around her.

“Je pense que ta mission n'était pas aller comme prévu?” _[I’m guessing the mission didn’t go as planned?]_ A deep male voice thrummed. “Tu t'est avachi grave là, Arno. Et ta gorge—” _[You’re limping pretty bad there Arno. And your throat—]_

“Ce n'est rien qu'une gratte. Ça et quelques côtes peuvent être traîtées. Mais la femme…” [Nothing but a scratch. That and a few bruised ribs can be dealt with. But the woman—]

Someone prodded her side non too gently, and Eva yelped. “ _Stop_!”

A gasp.

“Elle est anglaise? Arno, où as-tu trouvé une fille anglaise?” _[She is English? Arno? Where did you find an English girl?]_

Eva felt like she was nose diving, spiraling headfirst out of control. Words she didn’t understand and voices she couldn’t place a face to swelled in the darkness, threatening to overwhelm her. Beneath it all a fire burned, bright, white hot, and her body was the kindling.

 _I’m dying, I’mdyingI’mdying._ The blaze spread upwards, stretching curled, sizzling talons to claw at her abdomen and shred at her throat. It hurt, the pain. She was being burned alive, and any moment now the inferno would overwhelm and consume her.

“Regardez!” [Look!] A voice shrieked somewhere far off in the distance. “Son côté. Oh mon _Dieu_ , ça—” _[Her side, oh my_ God _it's—]_  
Burning. She was burning.

In a moment of hysterical clarity Eva thrust her head back, eyes popping open, their liquid depths taking in two faces of equal bewilderment. She screamed, the sound raking against her vocal cords. She screamed again, the pain shrieking it’s rage, before a violent cough had a dainty trickle of blood curling from the corner of her lips.

_I’m dying._


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arno hesitated a moment, looking sharply at Renard, before replying. “How is it you were aware I was in possession of the woman? You are unsettlingly well informed.”  
> Renard grinned like a cat who’d just cornered a mouse. “You aren’t the only one with spies, my dear.”  
>  _Well I can’t exactly argue with that one, however creepy he is._ Arno thought. The hordes of followers amassed by Le Roi des Thunes was proof enough of the truth in Renard’s statement. Still, Arno had to resist the urge to laugh at the man’s request. “You know what I am, what I stand for. Why in the hell would I ever help a clearly deranged stranger come into contact with a massive source of unknown power?” He had experienced first hand what that kind of inhuman strength did, how it had destroyed the ones he loved—  
>  “—cause I have a trade I very much think you’ll be interested in.”  
> Arno didn’t miss a beat, unwilling to allow Renard to catch him offguard again. “And that would be?”  
> “A reunion. Between you and the thing you hold most dear in this world. Living or dead. Inanimate or the reverse.”  
>  _Elise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a tad late, I was at the beach... again! Enjoy, and a big thanks to **xXDrawingFanXx** for the translations! Also, I'm gonna try and respond to any future comments bc they make me smile so much ^^
> 
> **xXDrawingFanXx -** Holy crow! That's my fav part too actually, haha, just because I can feel her struggle so deeply in that moment 8|
> 
> **SilverZelenia -** I feel ya, I wrote it!
> 
> **littleAlbert-** Thank you so much! This made my day :D I'm glad you're enjoying it!
> 
> **FrostyBlueFox-** Oh noes! Haha thank you though!
> 
> \- Chapter Music:
> 
> _* Dark Forces - Peder B. Helland_
> 
> _* Come a Little Closer (Acoustic) - Cage The Elephant_
> 
> _* Binding Loyalties - Sarah Schachner_
> 
> * * *

“Nightmares don’t last.”  
\- C.S. Lewis, _Letters to an American Lady_

 

**_Date: Unknown._ **

_Run._  
The motion was instantaneous, a quick fire impulsion of fight or flight— _definitely flight, definitely!_ — that had Eva’s arms and legs pumping like engines working double-time. Her necklace clinked dully against her burning skin as she careened around a corner, feet nearly tripping up in the ornate carpet that coughed up dust every time they clapped against it. Eva cast a frenzied glance over her shoulder, choking on the motes of grime that floated slack in the stagnant air, indifferent to her plight. Her fair hair fanned out behind her as she raced down the hall, having been shaken from its braid when that thing— _creaturemonsterdemon_ — had snagged a warped claw into the thin rubber of her hair tie. Eva fell gasping into a door, clutching it with white knuckled fear as she whipped her head in every direction. She’d seen it, lurking in the shadows of each room while the boring tour guide— _Philipe_ — had droned on. It’s eyes alone had been enough to snare her; red, with tiny ghost-white pinpricks dancing in their centers. Eva had faltered, dropping her sketch pad. Tried to collect herself. Called out to her parents that she’d catch up in a second— her mother tutting something about artists and their muses. Yes, she had faltered and lost the group: her first mistake.

Down the hall, something rattled and Eva nearly screamed, jamming her fist into her mouth, eyes bulging as she ducked behind the door. Akin to a hawk her gaze traveled with the upturned vase as it rolled, bulky and lethargic, across the opulently embroidered carpet that spanned the Hall of Mirrors, clinking to a stop against the wood framing one of the many floor to ceiling windows.

In the silence that followed all Eva could hear was the panicked, rasping scrape of her staccato breath. It seemed to eat up the stillness, superfluous, an unwanted chanting chorus of frenzied hysteria. She wanted to shut her eyes, to pretend that this was all just a figment of her overworked, innovate mind. But something inside her balked at the idea. No way, I’ve seen too many horror movies to know how that shit would play out. Perhaps some nineteen year old beatnik writer with quirky square spectacles and a love of fedoras would poetically describe such a gut feeling as ‘intuitive destiny’. Eva, on the other hand, simply classed it as not being a complete moron. _I will not be that idiot blond girl who gets herself killed. No_ fucking _way._

She peeked out into the hall again, her hand against the door hinge slick with sweat as she pressed her eye to the small crack in between door and frame.

Nothing, there was nothing.

Pulling back, Eva frowned. A small, millisecond debate scraped itself together within the hum of her strained mind. A split second later had her slipping silently away from the safety of the door, floating like a phantom through the large room. It was so ridiculously gaudy that if she knew better, Eva would have thought some toddlers playing dress up had been hired to decorate it.

_I think this is Marie Antoinette’s room…_ She slipped up next to the considerably large four poster, hands skimming the crackling wallpaper as quick and quiet as when she paddled her board out to sea. A particularly large crack in the wall bumped awkwardly against the pads of her fingers, and with a gasp of triumph Eva dug her hands into the hidden door and began to pull. _I knew it was a good idea to kinda sorta pay attention to Philipe’s blabbermouth._ Behind her, the door to the room squeaked mournfully and clipped shut with a sickening snick. In that instant three things occurred simultaneously: Eva’s entire body shut down; her stomach bottomed out, twisting sickeningly like it were plummeting eleven stories. Quivering leg’s suddenly threatened to collapse under her, shaking so hard that she had to grip the four poster’s frame for support. Something behind her was shuffling slowly, its feet hitting the old floorboards in a lurching, shuffle-thump shuffle-thump gait as a whining, wail of a laugh cackled loudly. The hair on her neck and arms was standing pin straight, her mouth as arid as any desert. In that instant she knew.

_I’m trapped._

“Augh!” Eva cried, her breath knocked flat out of her as her back hit the floor hard. The gargoyle hunched over her triumphantly, its breath hot on her face as she tried to suck the air baThe thing had stalked her. Outsmarted her. _Cornered_ her. And here, in the bedroom of some long dead queen without a head, she would face it. Eva whipped around, planning to dive across the bed to the opposite side— put some distance between her and the creature— but instead found herself floundering. Again, it was the eyes that caught her. They seemed to smile, but the light behind them wasn’t charming in it’s false grin. It was maniacal. Dangerous. The thing cackled again and Eva snapped out of her stupor. She saw it then— really saw it— from it’s scaly, fanged smile to the way its twisted claws gauged and popped at the crepitating floor. On it’s back were wings each twice the size of its body, and on its head were spiraling, sharp-tipped horns. The thing leered forward a step on a muscular leg, its arms stretching out to catch her in its bone crushing embrace.

_Move!_ Her body screamed at her. _Move! Don’t let it grab you!_ But Eva couldn’t. Her face was drawn in horror, wide eyes glued to the one thing she hadn’t been able to tear her gaze from. It’s mouth, drawn wide— far wider than was natural for even a snake, she thought— was gaping at her in the sickest of smiles. The tongue that poked from its yawning jaws was a resolute, unbending grey. Mocking her. It was mocking her. The demon laughed again, it’s mouth unmoving as the shattering noise exploded from its lunges, and backing up Eva screamed when the backs of her knees hit the bed and she tumbled head over heels. Her backpack muttered a crunch of detest beneath her, breaking her fall. Eva scrambled upwards, a pamphlet that had fallen from her bag stuck to her sweaty, sticky skin. Peeling it off, she nearly threw it aside before she saw it. The thing, the creature, _there it was!_ Clinging stonily to the side of Notre Dame, it’s jaws a chasm, its wings raised in flight. Motionless in its monstrous semblance. Eva blinked. Swallowed. Blinked again before shakily thrusting the pamphlet away. The creature snarled and took another step forward.

“A gargoyle.” Eva muttered. “It’s a fucking gargoyle. _Shit_.”

A high pitched cackle was the only indication of the impending attack. Lunging forward, the gargoyle swiped at her, razor-sharp claws grazing her collar with a twinge of blistering pain as Eva dove to the right at the last moment, crashing in a sweaty, shaking heap into an expensive looking chair. _Fuck, if I make it out of this there’s no way I’m gonna be able to afford to replace that._ Blood was oozing hotly from the slice on her collarbone, Eva could feel it as it dribbled its way down her chest. Pushing herself to her feet, she barely had time to ogle at the stony scales that patterned the beast’s body before the thing was crashing into her again with a piercing shriek.

“Au _gh_!” Eva cried, her breath knocked flat out of her as her back hit the floor hard. The gargoyle hunched over her triumphantly, its breath hot on her face as she tried to suck the air back into her battered lungs. Drool seeped from the creature’s jaws and pooled in the hollow of Eva’s neck as it leaned down, it’s cavernous mouth all she could see. A flash of fury— the fight kicking in— suddenly shot through Eva’s veins, laced dangerously with sheer madness, and with a shriek of rage she drove her knee upwards hard into the gargoyle’s stomach, her fist driving into it’s throat simultaneously. Eva screamed. F _uck, fuck, fuck it’s made of stone!_ Her fist came away bloody and shattered, and undeniably, unbelievably burnt. Tears leaked from the corner’s of Eva’s eyes, slipping quietly to the wrecked floor below as the gargoyle sneered and leaned in with a growl that sounded more to Eva like a mocking giggle than anything else. Through the pain, Eva forced down a sob. She would not go down a weeping mess. _Fuck that._

_Okay, I am gonna shut my eyes now though. I think that’s allowed after the monster catches you?_ And she almost did, her eyes mere slits when suddenly Eva noticed that the creature had frozen and was staring with an expression of what she could only describe as horror plastered to its abominable features. Eva did her best to crane her neck, to catch a glimpse at whatever it was glaring at with such bewilderment. Finally, she gave up, instead stretching up a hand to feel at her neck, fingers slipping across something solid and slick with sticky blood.

_My necklace._

Suddenly she reached out, hand snapping upwards to glue itself palm down onto the creature’s chest for no more reason than the pull of instinct. The gargoyle came to life again, pulled from it’s momentary trance to fling its head back and howl viciously. It took Eva a second to recognize that it was from pain. The creature reared back and swiped, and it took her another moment to realize that its hand and arm were disappearing into her chest. Her necklace, to be more precise.

_WHAT THE—_

Before she could do more than gasp in repellent shock, the gargoyle was nearly halfway gone, its entire frame disappearing in an awful howling mass, sucked like a genie back into a lamp into the epicenter of her tiny necklace that winked with gold. With a final howl of unjust rage the creature was gone, leaving Eva sprawled on the ground, too stunned to move. Closing her eyes wearily, it was several minutes before she allowed a small smile to creep onto her lips.

“I did it,” Eva whispered, a huffing laugh of disbelief escaping her quaking frame. “I don’t know how I did it, but I did it, well actually my necklace did it, but—”

It was like the air had a pulse, and suddenly it was beating far too loudly. Eva gasped, the tingling sensation that had been mulling about in her toes suddenly rocketing upwards to her torso and beyond. A lurkingly familiar burning began to simmer, lukewarm at first, but she could feel it as it began to bubble beneath her skin. Her head felt like it had been split, and with roving eyes Eva tried to push herself to her feet, only succeeding in falling to her side in show of spectacular weakness. Everything was on fire, and opening her charred lips she tried to scream, the only sound emitting from her smoke filled lungs the hushed hiss of steam. Beneath her, the floor was melting. Eva yelped, rolling away from the blackening wood, but wherever her skin brushed blistered and sizzled underneath her scorching touch.

In a huff of crumbling wood Eva felt her stomach lurch as the floorboards collapsed, giving way to a darkness blacker than night. She tumbled into it headfirst, screaming (finally), arms splayed out before her though there was nothing to catch. Hovering like a marionette in the darkness, Eva struggled. The fire was in her veins, her pores, and images of nails cracking while her eyeballs burst had her chest constricting in muted horror. An inferno was building in her belly, devouring the right half of her ribs in a roaring blaze of savage flame. Her left ankle shrieked in pain, her arm broiling wickedly, and all over Eva felt the fire begin to eat away at her flesh.

“Célestine, vite, retienne-la!” _[Célestine, come quickly, hold her down!]_

Eva’s eyes rolled, slipping open enough for her to see the fuzzed form of a woman about her own age struggling to subdue her thrashing arms. _Stop!_ Eva wanted to scream. _What are you doing? Can’t you see I’m burning alive? Help me._ Help _me!_ With a gasp and a cry she yanked her hand free, fingers scrabbling at the fire that laced its way up and down her side. They came away coated in blood.

“Je ne peux pas la recoudre cette blessure si elle continue a se tortiller!!” _[I cannot stitch up that gash in her while she is squirming like this!]_ Someone else was shouting.

The girl on top of her grunted with wasted effort as Eva continued to writhe, eyes blown wide in agony, fingers bent, hands clutching at air as she screamed through gritted teeth. Out of the corner of her gaze, a hulking form lurked in wait.

_The gargoyle._ It had to be. It was the only explanation.

_Not again!_ She wouldn’t let it near her, wouldn’t let it hurt her.

Eva lashed out violently at the tiny, smooth hand the creature placed on her shoulder, the motion twisting her torso a little too sharply and causing her frame to suddenly tighten with a barrage of violent coughs. Something wet stuck to her throat and bit metallically into her tongue.

“Elle tousse du sang, Madame!” _[She is coughing up blood, Madame!]_

“Merde.” There was distant gasp and a tapping noise that sounded a lot to Eva like someone attempting to run quickly in heels. “Augustin, Arno! Dephechez-vous! Elle se réveille!” _[Quickly, she is awake!]_

Suddenly a wave of flame crashed and rolled across her wilting body, and throwing back her head she shivered, groaning harshly. Her leg kicked out as someone attempted to hold it down, the motion ripping a void in her side that sent it singing with agony. Her vision swam as her eyes roved, slipping erratically from blurred form to blurred form in a frantic quest for salvation from the abysmal hellfire within her. A blue coat caught her vagrant gaze, snapped her eyes to lock with the dulled edges of a face she’d only glimpsed at once or twice as it came swimming from her memory into view.

“Arno,” someone said, sounding relieved.

So that was his name then? _Arno_. Distantly a memory groaned in the ruins of her mind, another cresting flood of pain drowning it out before it had even had a chance to break the surface of her consciousness.

_Arno_.

“Qu'est ce que vous voulez que je fasse?” _[What do you need me to do?]_ He asked quickly, his voice a deeply measured coolness that exuded composure as the smudged blue of his coat drew rapidly closer. Absently, Eva wandered if he was talking to the gargoyle, the thought ripped from her just as a scream tore itself from her throat, her body writhing as she burned.

“Elle est trop forte pour Célestine, retiens-la pendant je recoudre la blessure.” _[She is too strong for Célestine, hold her down while I sew the wound.]_

The meager weight that had attempted to hold her down was suddenly lifted, and Eva made the mistake of sagging, the ache of exhaustion beginning to seep into her bones overcoming her will to fight momentarily. In that split second instant, another set of hands replaced the more delicate pair, these rougher and far more firmer. The fingertips whispered a calculated strength into her sweat-slicked skin as muscled arms pressed her firmly into whatever it was she lay on. Eva struggled faintly, panting with the effort, the battle slipping from her bedim grasp as she settled her clouded gaze on dark ceiling. A bead of perspiration weeped from the groove that connected nose to lips, glissading innocently into the crack between her lips. Her tongue tasted sour salt as the sweat turned the blood coating her teeth pink. Eva groaned, unable to budge with the new weight atop her.

“Retiens-la bien serrée maintenant...” _[Hold her tight now…]_ Came a commanding feminine voice somewhere above Eva, and suddenly something small and sharp grazed her skin before plunging deep into the fiery blistering of her right side. It seared, scorching hot, and thrashing her head from side to side Eva tilted it back and let out a strangulated scream. Her legs kicked out, scrambling weakly and jostling her left ankle in her vain attempts of escape. Arms writhing uselessly under the sheer rigidness of the weight above her, Eva felt her back lift and arch into something solid and warm and breathing, eyes wide and threatening to roll upwards at any moment, her mouth open in a silent scream.

“Elle va la déchirez de plus en plus.” _[She will tear the wound more.]_ A familiarly girlish voice shrieked.

“Arno, tiens la! Célestine, hush!” _[Arno, hold her down!]_ Someone growled beside her ear, and Eva gasped in fright, eyes roving to try and spot who had spoken.

_The gargoyle. The gargoyle!_

She could see it in her mind’s eye, leering at her with that gaping maw. Her side was pierced again, and she screamed shrilly, the sound dying brokenly on her lips as a grunt from above announced the sudden presence of a heavy knee as it slid to rest on her abdomen, effectively preventing her spine from curving upwards as she flinched away from the torturous pain. Someone tried to hold down her legs again, their slender hands flinching away when they touched her bare, steaming skin before abandoning the task with a cry of shocked pain. The third time the sharpness stabbed through the skin of her side, Eva could only kick out feebly, chest heaving as she wheezed and gasped. Her arms flinched and jumped under those strong hands, dancing immovably beneath their taunt pressure. The fourth time, her eyes rolled to the left, mouth falling open in inexplicable pain as her gaze caught Arno’s directly above her. Tears pricked, muddying her vision to the point that all she could make out above her was the way his mouth seemed to pull down into a calculated grimace as his eyes floated down to meet hers.

“Vous allez y arriver, allez, vous êtes une combattante.” _[Almost finished, this will be the last one.]_ The phantom voice seemed to assure. It was a soothing voice— high and soft and sweet, nothing like what Eva would have expected a gargoyle to sound like.

Arno blinked, his lips moving slowly, and yet all Eva could catch was the tail end of what he’d murmured. Fortunately, he repeated it. Twice. Almost as if he were whispering a mantra to her. 

“Vous allez y arriver, allez, vous êtes une combattante.” _[You can do it, come on. You’re a fighter.]_

The first tear fell as the terrible point bit into her red hot flesh again, digging its way deeper into tender, raw skin that screamed and screamed and _screamed_. And yet all Eva could do was begin to cry as the pain threatened dangerously to overwhelm her. Not that she could have done much about it if it did. The sob that crooked its way out of her throat was eroded and pitiful, but Eva didn’t _care_. She wanted her mother, she wanted to sleep. And a part of her, a very small part, wanted to die. It was just too painful.

Something brushed at the wetness of a tear that had escaped out of the corner of her eye, and blinking deliriously Eva caught Arno’s gloved hand as his thumb wicked away the moisture from her cheek. The action surprised her. Why did he care if she cried? Eva blinked, trying and nearly failing to focus on the expression of the man who towered over her— her rescuer. He had rescued her, hadn’t he? _Why? Why..._ Another tear fell, whispering a hiss as it dissolved against the heat of her cheek.

“Terminé.” _[Finished.]_

The sharp sting never returned to her side, and suddenly Eva felt as if she hadn’t closed her eyes in ages— hadn’t slept in a thousand years. But she had to know, she needed to know— why had he rescued her, why was he trying so hard to save her?

“You…” Eva breathed, the words twisted and warped as she struggled to spit them out with lips that had been stretched taunt with endless screams. Their gazes never left one another, and something in Arno’s shivered and pulsed. His grip on her arms slackened only slightly, his grip still firm as he leaned over her.

“Arno, j'ai dit que j'ai fini.” _[Arno, I said I’m finished.]_

Arno blinked then, snapping the trance that had settled like a shroud over the two of them, and suddenly his weight was gone. Eva’s lashes flickered, wanting to move her arm, her eyes, to call back the only presence that seemed to somewhat comfort her in this nightmarish wonderland. But her exhaustion only laughed mockingly at the attempt, and Eva remained limp and boneless where she lie.

“Alors, c'est tout?” Arno asked. _[Is that all then?]_

“Madame, sa cheville.” Célestine called meekly. _[Ma’am, her ankle.]_

The voices spoke simultaneously, one a question, the other an uncomfortable fact.

Arno frowned. “Sa cheville?” _[Her ankle.]_

“Merci Célestine, je sais.” _[Célestine thank you, I know.]_ Came the patient reply. Eva closed her eyes wearily, forcing them open with what little strength she had to find a small crowd had gathered at her feet. The bleary outline of a woman drew closer, hands gently caressing her left foot as she inspected it.  
Where’s… where did it go? Eva felt a trickle of sweat slip down her temple. It sizzled, the fire of her skin steaming it into mist. The gargoyle behind her— where was it?  
Arno’s arms crossed as the woman straightened from her inspection.

“Est ce que c'est…?” _[Is that…?]_

“Disloquer? Non, mais sérieusement entorsée. _[Dislocated? No. But it is severely sprained.]_

“Merde” _[Shit.]_ Arno hissed, and something in the way his voice dipped downwards darkly had Eva shivering despite her body’s impossible heat. The presence of a gaze on her had Eva’s head slipping right weakly, flopping against the pillow in exhaustion as slowly she struggled to raise her drooping lids. _Exhaustion_ , what a word. It did little to truly describe the overwhelming fatigue that had sucked the strength from her limbs hungrily.

“Arno, est ce qu'elle est inconsciente?” _[Arno, is she unconscious?]_

“Oui, il est fort possible.” _[On the brink, yes.]_

Eva’s eyes could barely focus, instead only managing to follow the hazy shape of brilliant blue as it drew closer, the hard line of a chiseled jaw glimpsed only briefly as it sharpened into view before Eva found herself caught up in a depthlessly searching gaze. Absently the fingers that toyed with her ankle ghosted through the clouded mirage of consciousness Eva still clung to, a small, spasming pinch of pain causing her to flinch faintly.

“Madame, ne touchez pas sa peau avec votre propres mains, ils vont se faire brûler.” _[Madame, do not touch her skin with your bare hands, it will burn badly.]_

“Chute Célestine, j'ai mes gants.” _[Hush Célestine, I have my gloves.]_

Eva had lost Arno’s gaze momentarily, her eyes having fallen shut of their own accord. Her breathing was heavy, weighted, its rhythm lulling her closer to the edge of abeyance. A hand ghosted gently down the length of her upper arm, fingers tipped in leather that crackled where it had been badly burned. Those fingers, they were familiar.

“La sueur, elle s'évapore de sa peau.” _[The sweat, it’s evaporating from her skin.]_

“C'est pas une fièvre, par contre. C'est pas du tout normal.” _[It’s not a fever. I don’t like it, it’s not normal.]_

“Ben, si tu n'avait pas remarquée de ses habits. Moi, je dis qu'il n'y a rien de normal.” _[Well if you didn’t notice her clothes, I’d say nothing is normal about her.]_ Arno replied sarcastically.

Eva gasped sharply, the stabbing ache in her ankle beginning to throb terribly as slender fingers flitted over her burning skin. Her gaze flickered— open, closed, open— before settling on Arno’s. She could feel herself beginning to tilt dangerously, her body threatening to pitch itself headfirst into oblivion. The gloved hand was back, wiping away a drivel of sweat that was slipping down her brow. Eva’s ears reverberated with the hiss and crackled as leather charred. Arno’s hand remained.

“Your name?” Came the question, coated heavily in the amour of French, the ‘r’ twisted downwards almost unsurely— Eva could almost feel his wince at how sharp his accent was.

She had little strength to summon, and gathering it all nearly sent her eyes rolling up and back. “Eva,” She whispered, and the man leaned down, closing the distance between them so that he could make out her faint reply.

“E…Eva,” he repeated, paused. “ _I_ … am Arno. Arno Dorian.”

Eva liked the way he pronounced his name, liked the way he sounded when he spoke his native tongue. She wouldn’t remember thinking such things later, and perhaps that was for the better. Arno’s brow creased as he struggled to translate his words. “Yo _uu_ are… eh… yo _uu_ are safe… here. Yo _uu_ are safe.”

Eva blinked, vision unfocusing as a glassy film slid into place over her gaze. She had lost her balance, teetering at that dangerous edge, and now she was falling— she couldn’t stop herself, not this time. Nor did she want to.

“ _Arno_ ,” Eva breathed before her eyes slipped closed and she tipped into the black gloom.

* * *

_** October 1st, 1796. ** _

“Will she make it?”

His glove was crackled black, the once smooth, rich brown leather singed nearly beyond recognition. Arno flexed his fingers, the frown on his lips sliding deeper as a mist of steam wafting from her reddened skin caught his eye.

Madame Gouze hummed absently. “It’s hard to say. She lost a lot of blood, Arno, not to mention her skin is hotter than the fire in the fireplace.” The woman wrinkled her nose, a soft shudder going through her as she peeled off her melted gloves. “She melted a bit of my needle, not to mention singed your sheets completely. And your gloves. _Ugh_ the smell, it’s a wonder they didn’t catch fire, really… Her clothes though… Curious… They aren’t even burnt…” Another shuddering spasm wracked her body. “I’ll tell you this though, La Bête really did a number on the poor thing.”

Célestine soft, wavering voice pipped up. “That gold piece around her neck, you’d think she’d burn that as well.”

Arno gritted his teeth, turning away from where Eva lay comatose on his bed. Her pitiful screams still echoed in ears. If he had been a bit faster in tracking La Bête… If he had gotten there sooner. Arno cursed darkly under his breath, the bite in his words causing Célestine to flinch away from his like a little mouse. And now the beast had escaped— albeit with one eye— and would no doubt strike again in the same manner, if not worse. Footsteps echoed against the polished floorboards, Arno’s gaze tracking the clicking of heels as the Cafe’s fencing master strode hurriedly into the room.

“I’m sorry Charlotte,” Augustin rushed, eyes only for Madame Gouze. Arno resisted the urge to roll _his_ eyes. “I caught Alex up in the treasure room and was only just informed that you needed my help—”

Madame Gouze held up a hand. “It’s fine Augustin, fortunately Arno was close at hand.”

Augustin nodded once towards Arno before stepping around Madame Gouze towards the foot of the bed. It must have been quite the scene— the smoldering girl surrounded by a halo of smoking, blackened sheets. His hands clasped quietly behind his back as he turned his gaze to Eva with a quirked brow. “The girl’s clothing… was she a whore of La Bête’s?”

The question was innocent in its intentions, and if he were honest, quiet a valid one at that, and yet Arno still couldn’t resist the way his knuckles curled into fists at his sides. There was something about her— an innocence, perhaps— that had him chafing at such an interrogating examination of one who wasn’t even awake to defend herself. He wanted to snap at Augustin, a bitter comeback already alighting on his lips. Whirling, Arno bit down on the cynicism that naturally bubbled to the surface, instead rolling his eyes towards Augustine with only a hint of bitterness on his tongue.

“Her name is Eva,” he interjected, sounding rougher than he’d originally intended. Like he cared— though he refused to stoke the fire of his sarcasm, there was little Arno could do to prevent some of it from slipping out now and then during supposedly serious encounters. Unfortunately, not everyone appreciated it, and those who did were few and far between. Six feet under, in particular. Arno swallowed suddenly, thickly, his gut twisting like someone had dug a knife in deep and twisted. Turning abruptly on his heel, Arno skipped over Madame Gouze’s arched brow to her gaze, ignoring the question that swam in her eyes.

“Keep me informed on her conditioned— if she awakens send for me immediately.” He strode from the room without a second glance back, mind caught in limbo between numb grief and burring thoughts as his feet wound their way expertly for the hidden tunnel that led into the Sanctuary, down below the Cafe. When and if the girl— Eva— woke up was a matter that could be dealt with later. Hopefully she would be able to provide information on La Bête that would be useful in tracking him down. _Again…. Or figuring him out for that matter. The man is as bizarre in his mystery as they come._ A mental image of de Sade flitted across his mind’s eye. Yes, the Marquis’ aura was definently something similar to La Bête… _decidedly less sinister, I think._

The stony arch that entombed the heavy door leading into the Assassin Sanctuary had always made Arno leery. It was ancient and dilapidated, like a crypt left to the ruin of time. Now, however, he swept through the archway and down the echoing steps with only the soft snap and rustle of his coattails as protest. His mind was elsewhere, brooding darkly on words spoken to him days before, ones that had heralded the beginning of his first mission within the Brotherhood after nearly two years.

_‘Do not fail.’_

And he had. Spectacularly.

_Merde._ Arno shook his head. _It can never be simple, can it?_

  
Who knew how the council was going to react. For a moment Arno allowed himself to envision Trenet’s severe bones drawing taunt, cheeks coloring a messy red as her head spun in a circle, her white, tight lips falling open to blabber his failures back down at him. It got him a chuckle, only a small one, which reverberated off the sloping stone walls in a way that almost seemed mocking. Who was he kidding, they were going to be pissed. Insanely so. And why shouldn’t they be? Arno was no fool. To have entrusted such an important mission to one so disgraced as he was more a complement than any words ever could be. It showed they were serious about their considerations to re-induct him. And perhaps a little desperate to boot. Why else would he be saddled with such a task and not another, more trusted Assassin?

“Well, let’s look on the bright side.” Arno muttered as he slipped down the final few steps. “There’s no way I could possibly disappoint them more than I already have in the past.” It was intended to be a joke, but the way the words faltered on his lips had Arno feeling equal parts frustration and annoyance. As he neared the Council Chamber, Arno barely acknowledged the stares he was receiving— a rather annoying habit that some of the newest inductees seemed to have adopted from their more seasoned counterparts— as he attempted to line up the pros that seemed to dwindle throughout his upcoming report.

_So… Council… how are you? Oh the mission? Yes, well no, it didn’t go exactly as planned… What do I mean? Oh, well La Bête escaped,_ but _I stabbed his eye out… oh, and rescued an almost naked girl who is dying and burned my gloves with her bare skin and may or may not have information on the target… that is if she even wakes up._

Arno winced. Not his best report by a long shot. “I might as well just hand them my blade and offer up my neck.” He groaned under his breath, reaching a hand up to tug the hood from his head. The pungent bite of burned leather clawed at his wrinkled nose, and whipping his hand over rapidly Arno found himself staring down at the eroded tips and palm of his favorite— and only— gloves. _Right, Eva._ The girl was downright inhuman— _didn’t Gouze say she melted her needle while she was stitching her?—_ and her ability to scorch any and everything she touched— mind her clothes and the stitches that had been sewn into her side, for some reason— was beyond Arno’s comprehension. _I really liked those sheets… Fuck._

It seemed that all his luck had been dumped in the sewer today. Arno sighed heavily as he entered the Council Room, resisting the urge to glare at the four sets of eyes that were suddenly upon him. Perhaps they wouldn’t take it as hardly as he imagined they would.

_Yes, and perhaps that mole finally wormed its way from the corner of Trenet’s mouth._

Here went nothing.

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly, the fact that he’d lost La Bête amidst the bloody scrap they’d had within the mansion didn’t go over very well with the Council. _Surprisingly_ , however, was the fierce defense that came to Arno’s aid from none other than Mentro Trenet herself. Arno had been particularly flabbergasted when she’d first interrupted Master Guillaume’s rather critical assessment of his skill (or lack thereof, as Master Quemar had muttered scathingly) with a stern but thoughtful rebuttal.

“Do not let your frustration cloud your reasoning Masters Guillaume and Quemar.” Quemar had looked like he’d just bit into a lemon whole. Trenet had definitely noticed, Arno suspected, and most assuredly not given a shit about it. “While Arno hasn’t in the slightest completed his mission,” a stern look had been cast his way, “I trust that this girl he’s rescued will provide us with enough information for a successful counterstrike.”

“Not to mention, La Bête will be both weaker in physique as well as in strategy. He’s lost a stronghold and many men, if Arno’s report proves accurate.” Master Vicarre had managed to catch Arno’s gaze, and slyly she winked at him before smirking, a gesture that had Arno warming to her rapidly. “As well as an eye, apparently.”

Guillaume had scoffed derisively, irritation causing his dark mustache to bristle considerably. Arno still wasn’t too sure how none of them had caught his snicker— well, besides Master Vicarre, but seeing as she’d only just blatantly sided against her fellow Council members in terms of ideology on the turnout of his mission, Arno wasn’t obliged to count it.

“That is _if_ the girl awakens. Vicarre, you honestly can’t expect such a petty scrape as a missing eye to daunt La Bête in the slightest? The man is a monster, and a powerful one. He won’t be so easily weakened, nor quickly forget the man who injured him, nor his associations to the Assassins!”

Vicarre had leaned across the table on her elbows then, glaring at the man. “Well, if his memory is is anything like certain others, _Master_ Guillaume, then perhaps we are obligated to remind him that despite our unassuming pretenses, to the very core of our beings we are killers. Unassuming sometimes, yes, but deadly all the same.”

That had shut everyone up rather quickly. As both the youngest and newest of the Council— and no doubt because of what did (or rather, did not) lie between her legs— Sylvie Vicarre had never truly been wholly respected by several of the Brotherhood, Guillaume being one of them. The lack of esteem he sometimes threw at her even had Arno cringing at times. Not that Vicarre couldn’t handle it— she was the epitome of a spitfire come to life. At least, that’s what half the Brotherhood whispered when she strode by.

Trenet’s razor sharp voice had cut through the growing silence severely, the tone she had taken causing Arno to wonder how often she interrupted such disputes between her fellow Council members. At least Quemar was relaxed enough… _on a good day._

“Enough! Can you two for once hold your frivolous bickering until after this Council has adjourned? And you, Arno.” Trenet had pursed her lips into a thin line, and Arno swore he saw her mole twitch. “You are tasked with the pursuit of La Bête. Learn his whereabouts, stay to the shadows, and end his life. That is all.”

The swift dismissal had had Arno turning on his heel— slightly stunned, but more so greatly relieved that he was actually escaping any real punishment _(or worse, dismissal)_ — before retracing his steps out of the Council Room. His boots clipped cleanly against the marble floor as he tracked his way from the Sanctuary up into Cafe Theater. Restocking his supplies quickly— whilst simultaneously listening (and trying to tune out) Madame Gouze borderline whining to him about her atrocious lack of sleep and how she’d thought it over and believed Eva was a bad omen or a demon of some kind ( _ridiculous_ )— Arno finally found an opening to slip quietly away from the Cafe’s overseer and into the surrounding streets. It must have been nearing daybreak, the horizon beginning to tinge itself a pale blue, and yet he didn’t feel the slightest tired. Not a tad… If Arno was truly honest with himself, he would have admitted that while Madame Gouze blabbered on and on he had been envisioning flopping face first onto his bed and sleeping for three days (not that he could, with Eva in it and all…). But he wasn’t honest, and he wasn't tired. He was an Assassin— one who severely cocked up his only mission, _I’ll be the first to admit_ — on the hunt, and with such a target as La Bête in play, he couldn’t afford to be even slightly sleepy or loose any time. _Maybe I’ll stop somewhere for a quick coffee…_

Three and a half hours and several miles later found Arno overhearing a particularly interesting conversation between two cafe-goers idly sipping their drinks. The talk had been intensely bland for the first ten or so minutes, but something had sparked enough of Arno’s attention as he’d payed for his (three cups of) coffee and stood to leave. A name. One he hadn’t heard in years. Sitting back, the Assassin picked up his empty cup, pretending that he was taking a measured sip, his ears pricked and straining to catch the semi-hushed tones three tables over.

“…concerning suspicious activity within the catacombs.”

A scoff. “There’s always suspicious activity in the ca’acombs, Gerard.”

Gerard scowled, leaning forward, cup of tea sloshing precariously in his hand as he uncorked a questionable looking little brown bottle with his teeth and dumped a generous amount of equally brown liquid in. It stank of liquor, even from three tables away.

Arno snorted into his cup. _You’ve got to be kidding me._

“The catacombs are large, a maze if you will, Dominic. There are many twists and turns,” Gerard held up a finger, “but some areas are more infamous than others.”

Dominic slouched, looking positively bored as his friend droned on.

“There are whispers that the… _kingdom_ … previously occupied by Le Roi des Thunes has been reestablished.”

Dominic looked up sharply, Arno nearly mirroring the mans surprise, his expression remaining impassive though his brows rose slightly at the news.

“Who? _When_? Wha’ is this imposter’s name?"

“Well,” Gerard grinned, catlike, “that’s the thing, isn’t it? No one knows for sure. Not a soul’s ever saw him—people are fearin’ it could be the man’s ghost— Le Roi des Thunes risen again to haunt the catacombs.” The man threw his head back, cackling, before knocking back the tiny bottle itself.

“They say it t’wer an assassin man who did ‘im in a few years back…” Dominic muttered.

Gerard cackled again. “That they did! Though I’m not sure what that means meself.”

Arno pinched his free fingers to his brow. “Oh _Christ_.” He’d had and heard enough. Placing his cup down with a gentle clink he stood, sweeping from the cafe without so much as a backwards glance. Lowering his head, Arno let the soft beak of his hood catch the early sunlit glow of morning as he headed for a back alley. He would be faster on the roofs.

“Looks like Le Roi des Thunes is back to his haunting…” In all honesty, Arno was a little afraid he wouldn’t be able to find the Beggar King. After all, he’d been so frighteningly pale on their first several encounters— _who knew? By now he’s probably so white he’s translucent as a ghost._

Arno grunted as he hoisted himself onto the slick pane of rooftop.

“I should have had another cup of coffee.”

****

If he didn’t know any better, Arno would have easily believed that he’d just killed the Beggar King. The Catacombs had always managed to produce an eerily ageless feeling— that and it constantly felt like someone was watching him. Tracking him and his movements, biding their time and planning their strike. It had taken him all of ten minutes to rediscover the main chamber, where Le Roi des Thunes had met his end by Arno’s blade. Barrenly empty, he swept his gaze in an arcing circle, taking in the entirety of the curving stone walls smeared with slime. Nothing had remained of the skeleton, left to rot and disintegrate on the balcony twenty feet above the ground. Not even bones, the rats had seen to that.

Or, of course, there was always the possibility that he’d returned to life and was stalking the twisting, turning tunnels. The thought made Arno shiver, his mind conjuring up a creaking, grinning skeleton as it sloshed jarringly through ankle-deep shitwater, bony fingers clicking as its head swung left to right like a hound’s on the hunt. _Not my most pleasant thought today. Then again, not my worst either._ Arno winced, forcing himself not to recall the brief instance of dread that had blossomed in his stomach at the realization that, quite possibly, the Council would expel him for his failure. A spider swung into view, dainty legs flaring outwards slowly as it lowered itself almost poetically onto Arno’s arm. With a huff of impatience the Assassin brushed it away— he’d scoured the Catacombs for at least an hour, and no sign of any ghost aside from several sets of nibbled bones that had once belonged to who knew what. Annoyed, Arno brushed the spider’s web aside messily, ripping the thread wholly from where it had dangled across the tunnel entrance.

Something— someone?— tutted behind him. “Now that wasn’t very nice. That web took her three weeks to perfect.”

Arno whirled around, eyes wide and blazing. No one. The steady trickle of gutter-water sloshed obnoxiously as he stood statuesque, heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, had detected no presence tracking him. _Then how—?_

“Not that it matters, I suppose. You did kill her anyways. The spider, I mean. She won’t be needing it now.”

This time the voice echoed ahead of him, trailing from the left— another tunnel. Arno took a step forward, closing his eyes for a moment and allowing his Vision to slide into place. When he reopened his eyes, he felt his mouth pop open in shock. Nothing— there wasn’t a soul in sight. But someone did laugh, the sound long and drawn out and horribly eerie.

“My dear boy, stop wasting your time and meet me at the throne.”

Arno whipped his head right— how had the voice gotten to the opposite tunnel without him seeing? “Where are you?” He growled. The voice laughed again, melodic and only slightly mocking. Arno sneered, balling his hands into fists. It was toying with him.

“Where. Are. You? Stop hiding in the shadows, coward.” Arno hissed.

“The _throne_?” The voice drawled sourly, sounding almost like a parent talking to a small child. “Oh, for heavens sake. For an Assassin you really don’t have very good listening skills, do you darling?”

Arno sloshed through the tunnels, his feet hurrying him back to the large, circular throne room while absently he wondered if, perhaps, the two cafe-goers had been right. Though it sounded nothing like him, what if Le Roi des Thunes had come back? What if he wanted revenge. _Then I go to him blindly off-guard, like sheep to a slaughter_ , he thought. But there seemed no way around it. How could one hide from something they could not see— perhaps, once he was out in the open, whatever it was would reveal itself. _Or kill me. Either option sounds unpleasant._

Whatever he’d been expecting, it surely wasn’t to find a man lounging crosslegged in what had once been the Beggar King’s musty, dank throne. Stepping into the room warily, Arno’s hand went immediately to his sword, eyes trained on the stranger. With his Vision, the man glowed white— neither friend nor enemy— and with a stab of frustration Arno disengaged it, blinking once as his normal vision returned. The echo of his boots as they slapped against murky puddles of water caused the man to glance up quickly, a toothy grin filling in the lines of his face.

“Oh how _marvelous_ , you came.” He called, sounding as if he were a generous host greeting a long lost friend at one of his soirée’s.

He sighed. “Oh don’t act so surprised. Now who are you?” Arno called warily, sword glinting in the reflection of the torches he’d lit previously, eyes scanning the strange man up and down. He was lean, taller than Arno by almost half a foot, with a mess of violently orange curls tucked away under a feathered hat. His clothes were simple— breeches, a waistcoat with a navy blue overcoat tossed almost carelessly overtop. His shoes, however, reflected the noblemen’s preference for a slight heel— something Arno had never understood.

“Who I am is of little importance, darling.” He almost singsonged. “It’s _what_ I am that would interest you.”

“And that would be?”

The man sighed, slouching in his seat and throwing the back of his hand against his forehead. “A simple man, a scientist, searching for his latest… experiment.”

“Experiment.” Arno echoed doubtfully. He was beginning to wonder what crazy sinkhole the man had been wallowing in before this…

“Indeed.” Came the reply before the man was suddenly bouncing to his feet, sweeping the hat from his curls down into a mock bow. “The name is Renard, nothing more, nothing less. I have been traveling for some time now, seeking out what has been stolen from me.”

“Your experiment.” Arno implemented dryly.

“My, you _do_ catch on quick.” Renard spat sarcastically before folding his hands behind his back neatly and sauntering forward. As he paced Arno turned, the man’s lunacy the deciding factor in Arno keeping his back protected while his glare followed Renard icily.

“Allow me to explain my plight, Assassin. Several weeks ago I was in my lab, dredging over hours of sleeplessness as I struggled to make sense of the manuscript before me. A strange thing, covered in ancient runes, with the most questionable drawing of a medallion in the center. And the caricature of a girl. She was most peculiar looking, possessing a mechanism I’d never encountered before, the medallion—”

“She?—”

“— Tut tut, didn’t your mother ever teach you that interruption is rude.” Renard sighed, coming to a halt before turning to Arno, hands splayed out before him excitedly. “I had just put the puzzle pieces together, you see. Discovered what the medallion truly was, when it was stolen from me.”

Arno didn’t like the almost hypnotic way Renard spoke, the way his tongue flashed behind white teeth whenever he grinned crookedly. A warning bell had gone off in his head long ago. How the strange man knew he was Assassin was beyond him. Still, he relented to the man’s charade. “And that would be…?”

“An excellent question! The medallion is an Artifact— there are many like it, all equally unique in their own right, though not as…” Renard’s spidery fingers clasped together, worming their way around one another. He grinned devilishly. “Powerful.”

“An artifact?” Arno glanced down at his sword briefly. Surely Renard didn’t mean an Artifact from—

“The Ones Who Came Before. They crafted each piece, each relic, all with a purpose in mind. Though, I’m sure you know all about that, Assassin.”

_“How do you—?!”_

“— Ah, interrupting again, are we? My dear boy, if you would just shut up for a moment, I would tell you.”

Arno gritted his teeth, flexing his wrist, but remained silent.

Tucking his hands into the lapels of his jacket, Renard continued. “A scientist such as myself doesn’t go through life _only_ asking questions. Eventually, one day, answers will surface. But be-bother all this nonsense talk of hows and whens. I know you are an Assassin, you know I’m a scientist. And we both are aware of humanity’s true history. Anything more would just be considered intruding, not to mention incredibly rude. Now, what I want to request is your help.”

The incredulity in Arno’s voice was layered with a smattering of astonishment. “My _help_? I’m no lapdog. I will not go searching for some crudely drawn medallion for some crazy—”

Renard held up a finger, and the look in his eyes had Arno’s words dying on his lips.

“Ah, but you’ve already found it.” And before Arno could speak, Renard beat him to it. “I’m sure you are aware of La Bête? Bull dog of a man who’s been murdering the nation’s most important figures in a rather… _gruesome_ … manner. Several days ago, an associate of mine brought to my attention the likeness to the woman drawn on my manuscript being delivered in a black coach to an abandoned building off the city center. What’s more, not only was her physical appearance matched precisely with the drawing, so was the golden medallion she wore around her neck. What interests me is what you have done with her.”

Arno shook his head, mirroring Renard’s slow-moving pace. The cogs in his mind worked sharply, his thoughts whirring as swift and straight as an arrow shaft. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, the story fit perfectly with the puzzle pieces surrounding Eva’s mystery— _‘that gold piece,’ Célestine had said… It hadn’t melted_ — La Bête holding her captive, her strange appearance… Renard grinned deviously— he had him, and he knew it.

“This medallion, it is a Piece of Eden?”

“I believe so, yes.” Renard replied. The two men had stopped pacing, having turned to face one another. “An incredibly powerful one.”

Arno hesitated a moment, looking sharply at Renard, before replying. “How is it you were aware I was in possession of the woman? You are unsettlingly well informed.”  
Renard grinned like a cat who’d just cornered a mouse. “You aren’t the only one with spies, my dear.”

_Well I can’t exactly argue with that one, however creepy he is._ Arno thought. The hordes of followers amassed by Le Roi des Thunes was proof enough of the truth in Renard’s statement. Still, Arno had to resist the urge to laugh at the man’s request. “You know what I am, what I stand for. Why in the hell would I ever help a clearly deranged stranger come into contact with a massive source of unknown power?” He had experienced first hand what that kind of inhuman strength did, how it had destroyed the ones he loved—

“—cause I have a trade I very much think you’ll be interested in.”

Arno didn’t miss a beat, unwilling to allow Renard to catch him offguard again. “And that would be?”

“A reunion. Between you and the thing you hold most dear in this world. Living or dead. Inanimate or the reverse.”

_Elise._

“Impossible.” Arno snarled, turning towards the tunnels. He was finished with this madman, no matter his well informedness.

“ _Possible_ , darling.”

Something within him, some small hope buried in the recesses of his heart, pulled backwards, and Arno halted.

“You think this is the first Piece of Eden I’ve come across? The first artifact I’ve cracked open and let its secrets spill over my mind? I know much, Assassin,” Renard hissed, stalking up so that he was a mere few feet from Arno’s ramrod straight back. “And I have my ways. My own little secrets. The One’s Who Came Before were a very intelligent race… with them, the limitations— no, the possibilities!— are endless.”

Arno turned then, heart beating into this throat. Did he dare fall into this trap? Or was it more than that? He swallowed thickly. “Why a reunion? Why not some other offer.”

Renard splayed his hands wide. “You’re an Assassin, aren’t you? Most people in that profession tend to have rotten luck in terms of keeping things alive.”

The words stung like a blow to the gut. His hidden blade unsheathed, the snick of metal sliding against metal barely audible. His eyes never left Renard. If this were true— if it were possible—- he daren’t believe it. And yet a part of him already had. Hope was a powerful thing; but love was stronger. It made one do crazy, insanely stupid things. Arno knew that.

“What are you terms?” He asked, and Renard gasped and smiled in delight.

“There are only three.” The man replied, holding up three long fingers. “Find and kill La Bête— I cannot have him meddling in my affairs anymore.”

“Easy enough,” Arno retorted snappily.

Renard ignored him, his excitement evident in the way his eyes shone. “Deliver the girl with the Piece of Eden to me in six months time—”

“ _What?_ Half a year? Why so long? And why must she be part of the bargain, it is the medallion you seek after all.”

“Your suspicion becomes you, Assassin.” Renard chuckled. “My studies have revealed to me that the source of the medallion’s power is incredibly unique. It binds itself, you see, to whatever it chooses, usually by a trigger of some sort. In this case, it just so happened to be that girl. However, what I find fascinating is that the Ones Who Came Before must have known, must have foreseen this event! Why else would her likeness be drawn on that manuscript?”

“Perhaps it’s her great, great grandmother.” Arno dryly droned.

“Perhaps! That is why we must give the medallion time to gain strength. The more she assimilates herself to it, the more it strengthens.”

“I was being sarcastic.” Arno sighed, his annoyance at Renard’s overbearing attitude spiking. Crossing his arms, Arno raised a brow. “And the third term?”

“Hm?” Renard whirled, the confusion that spread itself thinly across his pale face breaking as he nodded. “Ah, yes, quite right. If you could not mention me darling. _To anyone.”_ Renard added darkly, the timbre of his voice dropping considerably. A chill ran up Arno’s spine at the deepness of the tone— it was as if Renard had feigned the bizarre, childish squeak he spoke in all along. A tiny voice in the back of Arno’s head was shrieking at him shrilly, begging him to turn and walk away, to disappear into the darkness of the surrounding catacombs, to not give in to the offer.

A powdered blue glove came into view, Renard’s hand floating between the gap that separated him.

The man grinned. “Do we have a deal?”

Arno balked. _Not so fast._ “What of the girl, do you intend to harm her?”

“Not at all, merely study her and remove the artifact from her possession, when the time comes. She is merely a conductance of power for a few short months.”  
The decision was made before Arno really had time to think it out, Elise’s face a beacon of light in the darkness of his mind. Who was to say that Renard was lying? What if he were right— what if this was his redemption. His one true chance to make things right?

Arno swung his hand upwards, clasping Renard's briefly.

“Deal.”

He supposed he could just kill the man after everything was said and done. _If he actually thinks I’m letting him walk away with that medallion, he’s crazier than he seems._ Arno wouldn’t put it past him.

“One more thing,” Arno bit out, gripping onto Renard’s hand as the man attempted to pull away. “If I discover that you are a Templar—”

Renard threw back his head and cackled. The sound was dreadful, a raucous noise that bounded eerily from stone to stone, rebounding tenfold in the large room. “Oh, my dear, dear Assassin,” Renard whispered, yanking his hand from Arno’s grasp. “I am nothing more than a modest scientist. Meet me at le Repair Cafe in three days with news of the girl’s condition and any questions you bare towards the development of the medallion’s power. Until then, adieu.”

His final word slipped like a breath across the expanse of space as Renard faded into the darkness of the surrounding tunnels. Arno grunted, jolting forward at a sprint— he wasn’t finished with Renard just yet. Splashing into the surrounding corridor, Arno blinked rapidly into he darkness, shifting his Vision into place as he swung around in a circle. There was nothing, no trace of there ever being another soul down within the catacombs. Arno searched the cold, dripping tunnels for another twenty minutes, heart pounding in his ears and fingers shaking— he tried to ignore the obvious shiver that had taken hold of his frame, the surreal shock of the encounter (and promise) washing over him suddenly— but he found no one.

_Perhaps he was a ghost._ Arno thought, almost unable to believe the confrontation that had occurred only minutes before. _Perhaps I imagined the whole thing._

But something within him desperately told him that no, he had not.


	7. Sept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eva tried to swallow and couldn’t. If this were a movie, she would dead faint away right now. If this were a movie someone would burst through the doors and magically have a way to get her back to her own time ( _I’m stuck here_ ). If this were a movie, everything would end up okay. But this wasn’t a movie and she wasn’t okay. She was lost ( _stuck_ ), lost in a time she knew nothing about, and her parents probably thought she was dead and long gone ( _stuckstuckstuck_ ).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So college. Oh my God. Someone hit me in the head with a shovel and end my misery. 22 credits, two sports and a shit ton of clubs are gonna make it a tad more difficult than usual to get these chapters out in a timely manner, but don't worry! They may be a bit delayed, but I'll have them out eventually! Thanks **xXDrawingFanXx** for translating!!
> 
>  **SilverZelenia-** Well I hope you got an alert for this one! Also, I'm diggin' your avatar :p
> 
>  **xXDrawingFanXx -** Renard literally creeps me out so much when I write him, I actually have to take snack breaks. 
> 
> **PurpleAurora -** Ahh! Yay this comment made me so happy! Thank you so much, I'm so glad you like it so far!!
> 
>  **KaihaniWaves -** Gotta love sassy Arno  <3 And those two are def gonna be getting way cuter ;)
> 
>  **littleAlbert -** It's not!! I'm just so busy right now I don't really know what I'm doing! Haha, this chapter is hella long, so I hope you like it!
> 
> \- Chapter Music:  
>  _* Mind Game Part 2 - Steve Jablonsky, Gavin Greenaway & Metro Voices_  
>  _* The Last of Us (You and Me) - Gustavo Santaolalla_  
>  _* Data, Data, Data - Hans Zimmer_  
>  _* Nothing Is True - Chris Tilton_
> 
> -Morg
> 
> * * *

"Time travel without a capsule. That's a killer."

\- The Doctor.

 

 _ **Date: Unknown**_  

“Can’t I go with you father?”  
Eva’s eyes fluttered open, nearly blinded by the white-brightness of the sun from where it fell through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Curtains swayed in the faint breeze as dust motes floated lazily in the golden warmth. _This… this is familiar…_ She’d heard that voice before; seen this place.

“Courage my boy.” The _‘C’_ curled, a ghost of a whisper, echoing tenfold down the lengthy hall. From her position off to the side, Eva raked her eyes down the corridor, nearly jumping in fright with a squeak when she spotted the man kneeling beside her. He was older, with hair that smelt of powder and a choice of clothes that would have either made the fashion police commit suicide or call in the reign of a new era of style. _I kind of dig his overcoat. I mean, it’s better than the ugly sweatshirts Riley and Everett always slouch around it. Much more tasteful. And expensive looking, sheesh._

“You wait just here,” the oddly familiar gentleman before her murmured, his words so muffled it sounded like he was speaking from underwater. Eva blinked, squinting in the brilliance of the room at the elder man before her— did he _know_ her? Taking out a pocket watch encrusted in a silver than shone like the moon, he clicked it open and pointed to the studiously ticking hands.

“I will return when this hand reaches the top.”

“But that’s forever,” a small voice around her sighed.

“Not as long as all that,”

_Either this is a seriously fucked up case of deja vu or a weird movie I watched half drunk, because I’ve definitely gone through all this shit before._

“And when I get back, we’ll see the fireworks.” The man rose, a handsome smile ghosting across aging features, patting Eva’s knee before turning to leave. She watched him go, perplexed, before peering behind her for the source of the little voice.

From over her shoulder, the man’s voice drifted almost lazily. “And Arno, no _‘exploring’_ , hmm?”

Eva’s head whipped around so fast her neck cracked loudly, a sharp twinge of pain causing her to gasp and mutter a curse under her breath. _I know that name._ Her memory insisted upon it, poking and prodding her with a blurred face. His features were indistinguishable, and no matter how hard she willed herself to recall the name’s owner, Eva was at a loss— he hovered in the shadows, the recesses of her mind. As if he didn’t want to be caught.

“Yes father,” the little voice came again, and this time Eva did not remain immobile. Leaping to her feet with a small shriek of shock, she whirled around to face the boy, sitting propped on an antique high-backed chair, stockinged feet swinging idly to and fro. He blinked, brown eyes shifting from his father to lock gazes with her, and she gasped, the wisp of cloud shrouding her mind evaporating.

 _Arno… Arno? Arno!_ The man who had _saved_ her. Eva’s mouth popped open. _There’s no way— how could that little kid be—? He was so much older…_ The little boy blinked, turning around to boredly inspect the painting that hung behind him before his eyes flashed across her vision, drifting after a breathy giggle down the hall. Eva whirled, utterly bewildered, to find the head and shoulders of a young girl poking from behind one of the corridor’s stone columns. A shroud of icy thorns passed through her slowly, drifting like a leave on the wind, and suddenly Arno emerged from her front. Walking through her, he jogged down the hall towards the girl, sparing her a backwards glance only once.

_Did he— Did he just— am I a fuckin’ ghost?_

“You’d rather sit with that old prune?” The girl called mischievously, “Come on!”

Eva slapped a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Excuse me. I’ll have you know that prunes are a great source of vitamin K— _aaand_ they’re gone. Asshole kids,” she muttered. _I am not a prune— ew. I’m more like a banana, or a pear… or an avocado—_

A muffled shout tore through Eva’s train of though and she whirled, backing up half a step at the sight plastered before her like a horror movie gone haywire. There was a sickeningly wet tearing sound that spattered echoes down the hall, and Eva almost hurled across the expensive looking carpet. The man from before— Arno’s father— was lying bonelessly on the ground, his body slack. His head was turned towards her, eyes wide and pleading. Around his lips blood was beginning to trickle, painting them red, the thin pink slivers of skin stretched wide in a voiceless scream. Eva’s eyes stumbled downwards at a funeral’s pace. The man’s silence did not reside solely with the fact that he was dead. Well, _dying_. The cavity where his throat had once sat was dripping, the hole so deep that Eva imagined it echoed like a cavern. A red, gory, gummy cavern. Blood seeped, stretching thick, swelled fingers across paling skin to dip into the rich carpet down below.

_How—?_

A growl had Eva stumbling back several more paces, her converse skidding across the carpet nearly sending her toppling over the two solid masses that smacked hard into her back.

“Oh!” She gasped, not caring what she’d tumbled into as long as it wasn’t— _whatever got him_ —. Her eyes were abruptly locked, glued to dark pits of pure malice that she’d hoped never to glimpse at again. La Bête grinned— his fanged smile smeared crimson— from where he was suddenly hunched over Arno’s father. Dribbles of goopy blood plopped noisy from the corners of his mouth, pattering like a gentle summer shower down onto the dead man’s fancy overcoat. A chuckle went through him, a deep throated huff of a laugh that shook his frame and sent droplets of beady red flying. A fine spray dusted Eva’s lips and lashes, cruor just barely misting over her features before she turned, ducking away on instinct.

She collided with a small body again, and clutching two tiny arms Eva righted herself, looking up to stare aghast into the boyishly pensive face of little Arno. His lips were pressed into a smooth line, pretty dark eyes drenched in a gloomy understanding, flecks of green flashing a radiant hue in the beaming sunlight, whispering of their potential. They’re divergence.

“It’s alright,” Arno said softly, reaching up to pat Eva’s shoulder. “I’ll protect you. I promise.”

Eva blinked stupidly, unsure of what to say. A snarl over her shoulder had her lurching, spinning on the spot, dragging Arno’s slight form behind her.  
“No offense kid, but the only thing we’re going to be doing is running.” She muttered.

Beside her, materializing out of thin air, the little girl was suddenly gripping at Eva’s arm, tiny fingers a vise in her terror.

“Where are you going kiddies?” La Bête whined, crawling over the limp, bloodied form on all fours. His bloody claw-like nails snagged themselves into the carpet, and unconsciously Eva realized that his long legs weren’t human, but rather the hind legs of a great wolf. “I’m still hungry, you see—” Here La Bête swung his head slowly to the right, black eyes fixed on Arno where he was peeking out from around Eva. “You boy,” La Bête hissed, long tongue diving in-between his teeth, scraping the drying blood away and down into his throat. “Show me your throat.” And he lunged.

Eva’s hand shot out, gripping the collar of Arno’s jacket and hauling him sideways. A rustle of motion fluttered past as the two fell. They collapsed in a heap, Arno landing sideways across her, limbs tangled. Picking her head up, Eva’s feet scrambled, legs jostling akimbo, already working to regain her footing— to run. She sat up, Arno rolling off her quickly as Eva pulled him to his feet.

The pretty little girl was dying. Her eyes stared glassily back at Eva from where she lay sprawled on the ground, neck lost between La Bête’s wolf-like jowls. A curtain of red hair spilled from where it had been tossed from its bun, the hat she’d had it pinned up in lying innocently by Arno’s shoe-buckled feet. Eva covered her mouth, a sob shattering weakly past her lips. And then the little girl blinked and spoke.

“Keep him safe.” She ordered, the words as commanding as they were smooth. Her voice was deeper, firmer— a woman’s voice in a child’s body. A voice she would never grow into. Eva’s brow tangled, eyes tracing the rivets of blood that had begun to trail down the girl’s neck. La Bête still held her in fierce grip, jaws clamped tight. Finding purchase. Preparing for the kill.

“You must protect him.” The little girl ordered, voice rising. “ _You must!_ ” She screeched hysterically. Her lips began to blur then as she scrambled to finish the rest of her warning. “La Bête will come looking for you— the _both_ of you. Nothing is as it seems— He will kill Arno if you do not—”

La Bête’s jaws snapped shut and he reared backwards violently. With a gasp of desperation, the girl’s eyes blew wide. “Keep him safe, for me!” She shouted before her voice guttered out and her throat tore itself from her neck with a dreadful ripping sound. Eva heard Arno utter a shaky cry, felt his hand grip hers, but all she could see were those eyes. Deep, they were endless in their inky oblivion. Spitting out chunks of blood, bone and skin, La Bête sat back on his haunches and grinned. A thin strand of something was caught between his front teeth, and with a nauseous shudder Eva realized it was a vein. His right eyelid dipped downward, a whisper of a wink. When the wrinkled, tender skin finally folded back into its creased place, La Bête’s eye was a goopy white mess. Eva felt a wetness interlaced between the fingers of her right hand. A gentle tug. Turning slowly, a ballerina trapped on a windup music box, Eva’s gaze dropped down to the gory mess that was Arno’s hand interlocked with her own.

She glanced up at him through her long lashes. He was smiling.

“I poked it out for you, Eva.”

She screamed, thrashing away from the little boy, hands coming up to shield— _protect_ — her eyes. Twisting and turning Eva found herself lost in the darkness without a light to guide her, writhing and screaming. Her eyes, someone had taken them, someone had taken her eyes— she was blind. _Blindblindblind_ blind. The thought echoed like a droplet of water in an ancient well. And always there hummed that constant, dull burn beneath her skin, in the core of her being. It was becoming frighteningly familiar. She could see their throats; the slender, pale cream of the girl’s, the thickset neck of the man. Both gouged and dripping. Unerring eyes branded into her memory. Unblinking. Dead.

_Dead. Dead. Dead._

Arno’s slippery hand squelched in hers, dripping with the remnants of an eye—

Something was tangled in her legs, a singed smell wafting up to clog her nostrils. There was the dim sensation of falling, the ground sweeping out from under her only to reconnect just as suddenly. Jarringly Eva smashed onto hard wood, a gasping cry of agony ripping its way out of her throat. Eyes opened weakly, fingers clawing air as she curled in on herself. Her side roared, pain sprouting like wings on a dragon. Her ankle pulsed spitefully.

 _Dead. They were dead. He ripped out their throats_. And now he would rip out hers.

Dimly Eva became aware that her eyes were closed, lips squeezed tightly together. She forced herself to pry them open, blinking tears and crust from the corners.

The first thing Eva saw was the leg of a bed. The next, the underside of it. Panting, weakly she brought shaking hands to smooth the hair back from where it clung to her sweat-slicked skin. A dream. It was just a bad dream. _Or was it? Isn’t this a dream too— all of this? A dream within a dream?_ She honestly couldn’t tell anymore.

Disoriented, Eva uncurled herself slightly from her fetal position, pushing her quivering frame up unsteadily onto the lackluster strength of her forearm. The world spun around her, fast. Too fast. _Make it stop._ Loosing her balance, Eva slumped forward with a whine of pain, huffing agonized breaths as the fire in her side was stretched taunt. A thin sheet was tangled around her legs, portions of it burnt black and reeking of smoke and ash. Strands of limp blond hair clung possessively to her sweat-slicked arms, and moaning Eva felt her entire frame tense up in pain. Her body protested feebly when she tried to move— where to, she could not say. Collapsing, Eva felt the first sob of frustration clog her throat. Her forehead and cheek rested against the rough wood of the floor. It scratched her like a cat’s claws, and as much as Eva wanted to roll away she only managed to curl into herself closer with a broken, gasping sob.

As with any place that is inhabited unwillingly, Eva felt a deep, frustrating hatred from her predicament. For the weakness she’d become. She panted and gasped in her tears as the seconds tick by like centuries. Arms, elbows and knees creaked and groaned, protesting their locked-limbed position, but any thought of movement sent a thrill of blurred vision and nauseous heat spiraling through her. The floor beneath her skin was beginning to smoke and blacken as her agitation grew, higher and higher still, and with it the flames in the crux of her body leapt— with each passing minute Eva became certain that she would lay there for hours, _decades_. That her body would burn through the floor and she’d fall and crack her head open and die. Maybe she’d wake up, if this really was all just some bad dream, and find herself in the hospital. Or in her hotel bed. Or even at home, asleep on the beach with a sand crown courtesy of Riley.

_He wouldn’t… fucking dare… Not after last… time._

Her mind was beginning to fog. Somewhere in the distance Eva heard the distinct muffle and bump of someone walking. Suddenly— Her side hissed and spat fire, flaring inexplicably, feeling like a shark had chosen her as his afternoon snack. And oh, did it hurt. She unfroze. Back arching off the floor, Eva screamed as loudly as she could (no more than a few octaves higher than a hoarse whisper) as her fingers clawed at air and her eyes roved in search of relief from the tormented prison her body had become. Something clattered somewhere in the room, and there was movement.

“ _Merde_.” [ _Shit._ ] Footsteps battered against the floor rapidly, their drumbeats growing louder and louder until they were replaced with a pair of knees beside her and hands beneath her. The gentleness with which she was turned onto her back had Eva barely crying out in pain, lashes fluttering and eyes roving half-consciously as someone floated beside her.

“Eva?” The thickened accent was unmistakable.

_Arno._

A kaleidoscope of emotions tore through her: fatigue, embarrassment, confusion— but most prominent was the overwhelming sense of relief. Her head swam, falling back as her eyes connected with his for only a moment before they too began to blur and mist. With a gasping, wet sob that was both parts pain and frustration Eva herself begin to float as her legs were slowly disconnected from the ground, Arno lifting her into his arms. Her hands lay useless across her stomach and her head lolled against a firm shoulder. _Why_ was she relieved? The boundaries between consciousness and the wild abyss of its darker half suddenly loomed threateningly, and Eva could no more answer herself than remember her last name. Her head was beginning to pound viscously, her eyes straining to stay open. The fire within her stuttered to a hazy, airless churn. When Arno set her down on the bed, her side screamed.

As did she.

“ _Shh_ … Shh.” Arno murmured, sitting next to her carefully. He muttered something under his breath in French, a curse maybe. Through the greasy mist that smeared her unfocused vision Eva saw the blackened bits of his coat that had touched her skin. Smelt it in the air. Someone ( _Arno_ , her subconscious reminded her faintly) was rolling up her shirt, ghosting soft, leather tipped fingers across the enraged, unforgiving pucker of flesh and thread. Eva whimpered, her attempt at flinching away so meager all she managed to do was roll her head to the side with a dull flop. Arno caught her eyes for a moment, and on the way to meet them Eva had spotted the glistening smile of blood smeared on his fingertips. Then their eyes connected and she was struck with the astounding realization that for all their dark embrace there was a light that danced there. A deepness. There was more depth and history and soul behind them than she had ever once encountered in any person before. Or maybe not, maybe she was dreaming again. Eva shivered and her skin burned hotly. She could almost feel the heatwave it emitted. Beside her, Arno’s face remained impassive, but something in his eyes grimaced. Eva knew, something was wrong. Arms still draped across her middle, Eva forced her fingers to move, brushing them gently against Arno’s wrist. He flinched as if he’d been burned ( _I touched him I touched him I touchedhisbareskin!_ ) and she gasped, eyes wide and round with horror. _Sorry. SorrysorryI’mso_ sorry.

Arno seemed to understand. “It is okay,” he said as quickly as his language impediment would allow. “You did not… There is no burn.”

Past the relief in her drooping, pain filled eyes he must have seen her question, for at that moment he tucked her rolled up shirt gently beneath her, eyes darting down to her side. “You tore your… ah… coudre.” [ _stitches_ ] He frowned, brows drawing together violently, and shook his head. “What remains of them… Your body… burnt the rest.”

Eva could barely understand him through the rough lilt of his accent and the clawing tendrils of fatigue that threatened to curl her up and drag her down into the darkness. And she most definitely did not know what a _coudre_ was. She was so _tired_ — so tired of the agony and the heat. Of her own confusion. The steady, calming drone of Arno’s voice hadn’t stopped. Eva was almost inclined to slip her eyes closed and let the ebb and flow of his words draw her into the cocoon of sleep. _Almost_. Instead, she forced herself to focus, pried her eyes open. Caught his gaze.

“…heeat from yourr bodeey is only, _euhh_ , hot whhen youu arree pani _ee_ cking. When I go find Madame Gouze youu must caalm yourseelf so the… the n _ew_ …” here he paused a moment, frowning, before skipping the word completely, “do not buurn. Youur _coudre_.” [ _stitches_ ] Arno finished, peering down at her imperceptibly. Eva trailed her gaze across the warm brown of his hair, realizing with a muted jolt that his hood had been pulled down and away to reveal a ridiculously handsome face beneath. His lips were moving again, telling her something about not panicking, but all Eva could think of was the way she felt with him next to her— sleepy and safe, and yet at the same time like someone had doused her in a huge bucket of icy water. Had lit up her nerves and nodes in a white wreath of flame or pushed her out of an airplane without her parachute. Something breathed a wild, wind-whipped breath into her that went shrieking through her lungs and dancing across her veins.

Arno stood up, the bed creaking slightly when he did. He took one step, then two before turning, the tails of his peculiar coats fanning out behind him.

“D _ou_ not moove… Madame Gouze will bee up soon.” He said, and would have probably left and disappeared to wherever it was he usually lived if Eva would not have opened her mouth and forced the words through gritted, grinding teeth.

“ _Stay_.”

It was more a desperate gasp than a command, a question that hung in the shocked silence for seconds that seemed to stretch everlastingly into the sunset of time. Arno froze, lips parted slightly, eyebrows arched impressively to the ceiling. “St—” Eva gasped, nearly choking on her own tongue as she gagged through a wave of nausea and forced herself to pant the words. She needed him to be here, needed the comfort he brought with his presence to remain. Too ward off the nightmares, to keep the prowling creatures (La Bête) at bay. If only until the darkness reclaimed her. It was inevitable, after all.

“Stay. _Please_. Siv ou— Siv—”

Arno was very quick. With a blurred hand he reached out to grab a lone chair, hauling it over the railing that separated the bed Eva lay on from the rest of the room and setting it down not a foot away from where her head rested. His boots tapped smartly against the floorboards as he moved to sit, silently tucking his elbows into his knees and leaning forward, folding his hands together. The soft hair that swept over his neck and framed his features bounced and wavered as he shifted, bangs falling into his face for half a moment before he lifted his head and glanced at her, uncertain gaze shifting over her almost tentatively. Eva closed her eyes tiredly. She was close to the edge, toes tipped over the side as she stared down into the blackness. She had no clue if it were rushing up to meet her or her it, but Eva welcomed it all the same. The fire in her smoldered and banked, and for the first time in days she felt a cool breath of air stumble and bump its way over her arm, her fingers. The sheets no longer smelt charred. She no longer _burned_.

Arno’s eyes on her were like a spotlight; she could feel them pressing a brand into her skin. Eva opened her mouth— she desperately wanted to thank him— tell him about the dreams she’d had about him. Ask him about that girl. See what he would have to say about it. He seemed like he’d have a few answers. _Hopefully_. There was something about the way he looked at her— her clothes, her face, the necklace that clung to her throat— that whispered of his own unanswered questions. Something told her that this man was just as confused as she was.

Instead of acting on her impulses, a deadweight reared up like a rogue wave and collapsed heavily atop her, washing across her body until it covered her in its lapping fatigue. She felt ancient, like a stone that had been eroded over millenniums— sleepless, worn down. Groaning, Eva’s head depressed into the pillow, sluggish thoughts hovering a thousand distant miles above. Her entire body was shivering with exhaustion. Eva was just too damn tired to care about any of it. Her mind blanked, body sagging as she let go of its overly prolonged tension. The sigh rushed out of her, long and deep and relieved, and with it came the ripping, crackling white hot fire that streaked up her side like a lioness on the hunt and back down, digging sharp claws into tender flesh.

The sound that tore itself form her throat was somewhere between a shriek and a mewl, a chair clattered as her spine arced itself halfway off the bed, firm hands suddenly pressing her back down onto the mattress. Eva opened her eyes and saw a girl with a mess of sweaty blond hair and a wild, tear streaked baby blues gaping back through Arno’s dark green gaze. In his rush to get to her he seemed to have misjudged the distance, their noses brushing faintly as his arms bulged beneath the fabric of his navy coat in their effort to keep her down. Eva sobbed once deliriously and gently Arno shushed her, relinquishing his grip on her only when she sagged limply once more. The fire was back.

Arno must have noticed. Removing his glove he placed tentative fingertips against the burning skin of her hand, digits curling and jumping back at the heated friction that bit against the pads of his fingers.

“Calm down,” he said, and this time his accent wasn’t so thick. Eva blinked once and caught the tail end of the deep breath Arno blew from his lungs. “Calm down.” He repeated, and swallowing noisily Eva managed a single nod. After a minute that felt like a floating eternity something brushed against the skin of her knuckles softly. This time, Arno didn’t pull his hand away with screaming, red fingers, instead letting them curl around her own loosely. Footsteps penetrated the haze that was settling over Eva like one of the thick wool blankets her grandmother liked to make for her (and boy could she pop those things out like they were on an assembly line). A familiar female voice echoed a question in French over her head, to which Arno answered before turning back to her.

“Madame Gouze will fiex yourr si _ee_ de now,” he murmured, but Eva hardly heard him. The depression made by his body sitting beside her on the bed was as comforting as the hand that still rested on her own.

“… will hu _rr_ t…” Arno was saying, but Eva was too far gone to feel anything besides the heat that was receding from her sweaty skin. There was a cool hand on her brow and the woman muttered something, sounding amazed. The distinct rustle of tiny tools ( _needles and thread, needles and thread to sew me back up again_ ) tinkered and clinked together in a bag. Eva’s eyes opened, slitted, and trained upwards to Arno’s.

“ _Stay_ ,” she breathed, the word so faint and weightless it might have only been a figment of thought. His hand remained firm on her own, though, and by the time a needle was produced to flash in the candlelight Eva had succumbed to her exhaustion.

* * *

“The fire in the girl’s touch is simply an effect of the Artifact. One of its many powers manifesting within her.”

Arno sighed, crossing his arms impatiently. He’d figured that lovely bit of knowledge out the first night he’d learned of the Piece of Eden strapped round her neck. If the only reason he’d taken nearly half an hour to pain his way over the backwater dirty and blackened Le Repair Cafe was to listen to a crazy man reiterate almost comically obvious knowledge, then Arno was two sips of beer away from jumping out the window and leaving.

“Tell me, how is she?” Renard was drinking his tea with a raised pinky, the chipped teacup’s once glistening white porcelain a smeared, yellowish brown. Arno frowned, tipping his own mug to glance into its contents before grimacing and pushing the untouched drink away. He could deal with a parched throat for a little while longer. Renard coughed, cup hovering mid-sip as he blinked rather pointedly at Arno, ridiculous hat askew.

“Fine.” Arno grunted, his frown deepening at the image of Eva’s tear-stained face, the way he had found her lying brokenly on the ground, hand stretched towards the bed hopelessly. She’d reminded him of the tiny china doll Elise had received one year for her birthday. Disgusted, she had tossed it disdainfully to the hard floor, shattering its pretty face and mangling it beyond repair. Arno shuddered at the memory— the thought of _her_. Something deep and heavy shifted within him, rolling over mournfully, and he shook the thought from his head, obliterating it in the mess of peculiarity that had decided to besiege him that week. Beneath the table he flexed his left hand, burned nerves screaming with reddened pain at the motion. He’d held her hand until she’d passed out— thankfully before Charlotte had taken the needle to Eva’s weeping, bloodied side. _Again_. Her body temperature had been a tempest, dropping and rising like the blade of a well oiled guillotine, quick and silent, but the thread had wound its way smoothly into her skin. It had smoked once, the needle hissing sharply when it had pressed into the skin, but Arno had whispered hushed words to Eva ( _calm down calm down_ ), chanted it to her (y _ou must calm down_ ) and eventually her skin had grown nearly as cool as cloudy day ( _I’m here, you’re safe. I’m here. Calm down_ ). Yes, now that Arno thought about it, he’d held her hand for some time even after she’d gone under, and there it had remained for God knew how long. He had paid the price of course; Arno had found that he couldn’t even so much as tug his glove off past the swell of his palm before a nasty thrum had traveled from the roots of his palm to his fingertips, and there it sang shrill with agony— _She ruined my glove and then she ruined my hand_ — Yet not once had it crossed his mind to relinquish his hold on her, not with those desperate sea green eyes boring into his own. Who she was and where she came from he hardly knew, but something in Eva’s gaze captivated him; made him feel as if he’d known her before, in a past life perhaps, if one believed in that sort of thing.

“ _Fine?_ ” Renard’s retort angled Arno from his reverie like a fish caught on a hook. Ripping himself back to the present. Arno blinked, eyeing the man opposite him with an annoyed look young children knew only too well.

“That _is_ what I said, yes.”

“Feisty today darling, aren’t you?” Renard murmured over the lip of his cup before draining its contents. He set it down, and over the dull chink of china fixed Arno with a stare so cold and commanding the Assassin couldn’t help but draw himself back a bit. “Pray, give me a sliver more detail than a simple _‘fine’_.” His fingers drummed on the arm of his chair restlessly. Crossing his legs, Renard raised his brow and fixed Arno with an expectant glare.

Eyes narrowing almost to the point of slits, Arno leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands together in a manner that was akin to a lioness sinking into a hunter’s crouch. His hood sat low over his eyes and shielded them, penetrating gaze shrouded in a cave of dusky mystery. With a twist of his lips Arno fixed Renard with a hard glare from beneath his hood. “Eva, she—”

“Ev _a_!” Renard purred, hands flying to clasp together before his sternum in delight. “Short for Evangeline if I’m not mistaken? What a beautiful name!”

“Do you want to here that sliver you were whining about, or are you just going to continue to interrupt me?” Arno hissed.

Renard chuckled behind a gloved hand. “Carry on then, I suppose.”

“Hypocrite,” The Assassin muttered. “Ev— _She_ — burns like the sun. Melted the needle that sewed her stitches in the first time— melted the stitches too. Her body’s temperature is at its hottest whenever she is awake, mostly when her side acts up…” ( _And I’m not there_ ) He’d noticed that rather quickly… Arno broke eye contact with Renard for a moment. A gaping slit spanned her side long enough for a grown man’s hands to fit through— any deeper and the spliced skin would have surely bled her dry. “It’s her severest injury.” He added, gaze returning to hawk on the man opposite him. Downstairs the causal clatter and chatter of the Cafe’s questionable guests lulled on, but up in the private room Renard had secured for them it was as still and quiet as an abandoned house. At one time Arno would have compared the lifeless hush of the room to a graveyard, but an increasingly familiar experience with them had rubbed his mind clear of his ignorance— graveyard’s were rarely quiet. Not as long as the living continued to come and stare stone-faced at the grey markers. To whisper the names of the dead, tell them stories and fill them in on important news. Not that it would matter to those buried six feet under. To the deceased, all news was unimportant news, unless it was the babble of a spade digging a new grave.

Renard opened his mouth to comment and was silenced by Arno’s pointer finger shooting straight up in the air.

“She has burnt the sheets, my gloves as well as the woman’s who stitched her side, all of the pillows and a good amount of skin,” his singed hand twitched reflexively, as if it knew it was being mentioned. “What she has not burnt to a crisp is her clothing.” He didn’t elaborate on how strange it all was, both the lack of sizzling cloth and the actual _lack_ of clothes. They were very… risqué. She was practically wearing a tattered version of a woman’s first layer of undergarments (albeit they were very different in make than any he’d encountered), and that wasn’t including their strange cut and material. “Or her Medallion.” Arno continued, carefully watching the flicker that lit in Renard’s eye at the mention of the Piece of Eden. The gleam sent a warning spark sizzling down his spine like a flame that blew in a wild dry breeze, and not for the first time Arno caught himself wondering if this deal was really such a good idea after all. He blinked suddenly, reflexively, as a dust mote floated into the corner of his eye, and in that rapid quick-fire of light and dark he saw a flash of red hair and apple-red cheeks. Heard a cheeky laugh that echoed up from decades past.

 _Elise_.

Arno’s heart ached, straining in his chest so violently and sadly that he felt as if it would blacken and shrivel. His breath became labored and his head swam with the weight of the long carried grief— Did he really have any other choice but to go through with this?

Someone was snapping their fingers, and distantly Arno could hear his name being called. Blinking ( _almost hesitantly for fear of again seeing—_ ) he snapped from his daze ( _—her_.) and turned his attention to Renard, who was looking more than a pinch exasperated.

“Has she managed to control its fluctuations?”

“To… an extent.” _Mostly when I’m with her_ , he refrained from adding.

Renard’s frown deepened at the vague answer. Uncrossing his legs he leaned forward, bent elbows jostling onto the table as his chin found purchase atop his interlaced fingers. “Has she recovered enough to regain self awareness beyond confusion?”

The question, so precise and accurate, caught Arno offguard. He felt his brows pull together and glanced right to stare out the window. “No,” he murmured. He hadn’t gotten around to mentioning the most… _troubling_ bit about Eva’s recovery ( _besides the literal fire under her skin_ ), but it seemed Renard had rightfully suspected more. “Not yet. It’s been a week and a day today, and no change in her… coherence.” A couple was making their way across the street down below, clothes bedraggled and tattered, hands interlocked and heads together as if they were whispering some dark secret. Suddenly, the girl threw her head back and laughed, pushing her lover. Arno felt a sigh go through him, soft and quiet and tired. The pair below disappeared into a shadowed door. “Her wounds— her ankle— every bruise and scrap on her has faded.” Arno shook his head, gaze floating back to Renard. “The last time she woke up she was asking for her parents and… the… the 'poe- _leese'_?” The word had been as foreign to him then as it was now (despite Arno asking everyone in Cafe Theater… _including_ Alex, who had said it sounded like some kind of foreign dessert. _Right_.), and though his childhood English tutor had been outstanding in instilling within both he and his adopted sister an excellent foreign vocabulary (including several nasty swearwords, but that had been Elise’s doing more than his), Arno had absolutely no clue what a _‘poe-lees'_ was.

“She’s not French,” Arno added.

Renard sputtered into his cup dramatically. “Well what is she?”

“English.”  “And you have no trouble communicating with her?” He asked suspiciously.

After nearly a week of practice the language came quickly enough to him. “ _For the most part no._ ” He replied in English.

Renard sighed, clearly not understanding. “Is that a yes?”

“Oui.” Arno deadpanned, a smirk twisting his lips at Renard’s evident lack of bilingual prowess. “ _Fucking ass._ ” This too was in English, said softly to himself. But intended, of course, for Renard’s ears.

“What was that?” Renard scowled

“Hmm?” Arno feigned confusion. “Oh, just an expression the English like to use.”

“What does it mean?”

“Ah, uh, _‘not a problem’_ , I believe.”

Renard nodded, “Ah I see. _‘Fucking ass’_ is right.” His pronunciation of the words were horribly mauled, but that still didn’t stop Arno from having to bite the pink on the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting and doubling over laughing. Really, it was _too_ easy. Renard hardly seemed to notice. Instead he’d pulled a sugar cube from the delicate, yellow filmed bowl between them, spinning it between his fingers idly.

“The Piece of Eden has displayed two prominent powers through her so far: fire and regeneration— specifically, a particularly rapid recovery rate. When Eva does recover, because mark my words she will, Arno, I must warn you that she may be far more unstable than at present.” Renard sat forward, inching himself towards the end of his chair. “Her evident deliriousness will have left her both exhausted and at the end of her patience, and such a potent mix might bode ill for any who aren’t careful.”  
Arno sighed. He wasn’t sure how Eva could possibly get any more unstable than she already was. Just the fact alone that she was able to literally burn anything she touched was enough to send him down to the cafe for a drink every evening.

“What, precisely, are you trying to get at here, Renard?” Arno asked, the heels of his chair scrapping loudly as he stood. He’d had enough gabbing around with the bizarre scientist from the moment he’d arrived. In fact, he almost hadn’t come. For a good portion of the morning Arno had debated on whether to just send word that he was too ensnared in his work— chalk it up to a busy schedule. This, of course, was laughably untrue. A full week after his little dalliance with the country’s most wanted mass murderer and Arno still had not a single lead on him. It was as if La Bête had just up and vanished. A ghost, his mind reminded him. He’d needed a distraction, something to make him forget how poorly his mission was fairing. Even if that distraction was Renard.

The man eyed him calmly, almost lazily, not bothering to stand himself. Instead, pushed his chair back and kicked his legs up to recline on the dingy little table. “Arno, _Arno_. I was merely attempting to hint at the severity of your charge. If this girl were to be unleashed into Paris it would atrocious. Can you imagine for a second the havoc such an unstable creature would cause amongst the citizens? She might even get herself killed again, and then where would you be in our little deal.” Renard’s eyes glinted sharply, like a full moon’s watery reflection.

Arno bristled. “Are you threatening me—?”

“Not threatening, no.” Renard inserted quickly, holding up a hand. “Simply producing for your convenience a warning of sorts. The girl may seem helpless as a freshly guillotined carcass, but mark my words she is no rolling head.”

Arno’s nose wrinkled at the analogy. He hadn’t though it possible, but Renard was beginning to make de Sade seem almost sane.

“She is deadly,” the man hissed, leaning forward for emphasis. “You must keep a watchful eye on her.”

Arno scoffed. “Under lock and chain? I am not imprisoning this girl, she has done nothing wrong.”

“Oh but she will, it is inevitable.” Renard smirked then, a little knowing thing, and looked down away from Arno’s glare. “Did you hear the gossip circulating the streets of late? A committee reviewing the palace of Versailles a few days ago for its resurrection found the body of an unidentified man lying in the surrounding woods. They say his neck was so badly burned you could see the dead leaves right through it.” Renard chuckled, the deliriously happy notes taking on an unhinged tone. “Not as effective as the guillotine… but close.”

He’d had enough. Spinning crisply on his heel Arno turned and headed for the door,. He would have made it out too, perhaps even down the stairs and back to Cafe Theater— if Renard hadn’t let out a knowing giggle and called, “And I suppose you have already learned the whereabouts of our dear Dog.”

He had him again, trapped in the netting of his words.

Arno would rather chug his untouched mug of questionable ale than admit that he’d nearly face planted the door in his shock. “ _What?_ ”

Renard shrugged, the action nonchalant though his shoulders were tight with excitement. “It’s just that a few of my little birds twittered to me that La Bête has returned to his lair in the outskirts of Paris’s southern district. _Slunk_ is more the word I would use, however. Like a whipped puppy.” Renard chuckled melodiously. “With decidedly less guards as well. It seems our darling Eva did away with quite a few, as did you.” He simpered a grin, sitting back to regard Arno with a gaze that the Assassin had seen many times over, when the Cafe’s cat had cornered her chirruping, screaming mice.

 _‘Our Eva’_ — Something about the way those words meshed together didn’t sit right with him. Arno sneered, almost lashing out at Renard. _‘Our Eva’_ … The words sent a rippling fury up his spine and down into the wrist that caressed the springs of his hidden blades. His only restraint was the promise of reunion, that half-hoped light at the end of the tunnel that suddenly seemed so much closer. So much more attainable. As long as Renard was alive, of course. So instead of stabbing the creepy bastard, Arno merely tightened his hold around the door and growled, “How did you learn of this? The place has been vacant for days, I checked—”

“Hmm?” Renard glanced at him as if he’d forgotten him before gesturing to the door with a flourishing hand. “Weren’t you leaving, darling?”

For the second time that day Arno felt a surge of annoyance so strong it threatened to swell and drown him. _I don’t have the patience for these ridiculous games he seems so overly fond of._   _De Sade would have a field day with him..._ His hand tightened on the doorknob, and as it swung open and he stepped out he heard Renard call, “I have my ways Arno. Meet me with her in the catacombs six months from today. You know where.”

The door slammed shut behind him loudly.

An hour later found Arno walking through the mahogany doors of Cafe Theater, a large mug of something actually _safe_ to drink the singular driving force behind his motions, when a distraught Charlotte Gouze nearly fell down the stairs and into his arms in her effort to get to him, rocketing Arno’s senses into high alert. The boy being considered by the Assassins as their newest novice inductee, Alexander Leau-something or other, came thundering down the stairs two by threes after the poor woman, eyes alight with some excitement.

_It never ends. All I wanted was something to drink and a nap._

“Gouze, what’s wrong?” Arno asked, voice stern, shoulders set rigidly. Renard’s warning suddenly seemed more prominent than ever, almost mocking him in its sudden resurfacing— Arno very well knew what was wrong, or at least, _who_ it was wrong with.

Poor Charlotte’s lips were moving but no sound escaped them. She mouthed words for a moment, a fish gasping incoherently out of water, before Alex took her arm gently and pulled her out of Arno’s arms, steadying her. Tall and slender, with strawberry blond curls and blue eyes to match, Alexander was every bit the opposite of the serious aura that floated around him like a faint summer mist. Ready to dissipate at any moment.

“The girl, she woke up.” He said steadily, though Arno could easily detect the faint rise and hitch of his uneven breath.

“Woke up.” Arno repeated slowly, tasting the words.

“Oui, woke up.” Alex glanced over his shoulder at the stairs nervously. “As in, her fever or whatever it was broke and she just—”

“I was bringing soup up to her!” Gouze wailed suddenly, the noise unlike any Arno had ever heard come from her plump lips. “And she just, she just—” Charlotte put her head in her hands and shook it back and forth once. Impulsively Arno reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. He’d never seen the normally composed overseer so upset before.

“Saw me and panicked.” Alex finished for her, shrinking visibly despite his towering height when Arno’s gaze green-speckled switched to bore into him. “She was like a demon.” He swallowed, and his voice shook with excitement. “Flew right down the hall and nearly killed Cêlestine on her way.”

Arno glanced at Madame Gouze. First thing first— “Where’s Augustin?”

“In the Sanctuary. The Elders wanted to converse with him on a new style of tactical training for the novices.” Alex replied, that charged light still sitting fixedly in his sky blue eyes.

Taking Madame Gouze’s hands, Arno led her a few steps away, instructing her to find Augustin and alert him as to what had happened. She tottered away looking more than a little drunk, her wheezing breath trailing out behind her as she disappeared around the corner and out of sight.

_One down, one to go._

“You come with me,” Arno grunted, passing Alex and taking the staircase two at a time. He could hear the kid— _nineteen years old, two years younger than you when you joined. You were just a kid too_ — clambering up behind him, long legs bringing him so close that if Arno would have turned around he would have smacked right into him. Resisting the urge to groan, Arno forced his feet to move faster, raising his head to glance upwards at the second level.

“Did she hurt anyone— Cêlestine?”

 

“No, no one that I know of. The Cafe’s a bit deserted today.”

I hadn’t noticed… “Where did she go— Do you have any idea?”

“Last I saw she was heading towards the roof.”  The what?— “ _Shit_.”

Arno hit the top step at a dead sprint, pivoted, and ran for the terrace where he so often trained with Augustin. Whipping around, he had time to shout “stay here!” back at Alex before he was shooting suddenly out into the brilliant afternoon sunlight.

* * *

Eva stretched and rolled over onto her stomach, ignoring the muttered twinge in her side as she groaned and buried her head deep into her pillow and inhaled deeply. And then again, so slowly she caused herself to yawn— the scent laced into the softness of her sheets was just short of the best thing she’d ever smelled… aside from her father’s bacon, of course. It was tantalizingly heady, a mixture of aromas she’d never before smelt but instantly wished she had. _Mom must have found some new detergent she’s head over heels with._ Eva sucked in another deep, long breath through her nose drowsily, deciding that the smell leant far more towards masculine that anything else. Soft, intimate even. It reminded her of what Riley or Everett smelt like as she came awake beside them in the early hours of dawn after a late night of video games and pizza, or when one of them leant her their jacket when she was cold as they watched the sun set over the waves. Only that wasn’t quite it exactly. Not all of it, at least. There was more, some aspect in the way her heart squeezed painfully— excitedly— every time she caught a whiff of the scent that never occurred when she was around her best friends. Eva sighed dreamily. She _loved_ it.

Her thoughts wondered in the gloriously golden daze of half-sleep a while longer— how long Eva would never actually know— flitting from one thought to the next in a lazy trance that bordered on dreaming. It certainly hadn’t gotten too far along in the morning, she’d mused at some point, since the rising sun usually announced it’s presence by shining bright yellow bands through the thin drapes over her window and across her bed in warm stripes. This usually occurred around six-thirty every morning, about the time Eva would drag herself out of bed (and land in a heap on the floor, where she would stay for the next ten minutes) to pull on her wetsuit and shove a piece of toast down her throat before heading down to the waves. Besides, if she slept in, the sun would blind her through her eyelids at about seven or so. Now, through the warm darkness that floated comfortably behind her lids Eva could detect a faint light, creeping its way towards her like a choking vine. She could also smell, strangely enough, the bizarrely out of place mixture of coffee brewing and eggs sizzling— _why is dad making breakfast so early?_ — tangled with the foul odor of horse manure and something else… _Sewer stench_ , a sleepy voice in the back of her mind offered. She’d only ever smelt it when she’d entered town for her classes, but the stink was practically identical ( _and_ a lot _worse_ ).

Eva moaned grumpily, ripping the pillow from beneath her and throwing it sideways over her bedhead with a muttered curse, arm pressing down on top of it in a somewhat piss-poor attempt to block out the foul stench. Another smell enveloped her gloriously, blissfully, and she sighed. It reminded her of cologne in a way, only not one she’d ever had the pleasure of catching scent of. It was twice as good as any of the expensive shit the guys at University wore . She would know, she’d passed through clouds of it enough walking around Humboldt State, where it wafted from them in overwhelmingly sickly, choked droves. This was better. _Much_ better. She could get lost in this— subtle, nice. _Very_ nice. It sent a shiver up her spine and a heat pooling below her tightening lower abdomen. Eva flexed her foot in a rich stretch, spine arching, and briefly wondered why her entire body was so stiff and sore, or why her side kept throbbing in gentle rhythms, or— _wait, wait, why_ would _dad be cooking breakfast so early?_ A few moments of woozy, disoriented thinking suddenly overstretched itself and snapped like a taunt rubber band, sending Eva flying upwards, the pillow rocketing halfway across the bed. She sputtered as she tried to detangle herself from sheets that snaked and knotted around her legs like creeper plants.

 _Fuck, I forgot! Our flight to Paris— it’s today! Shit, shit shit, I’m so late! What the fuck alarm?!_ Despite her flustered frenzy Eva’s eyes were barely cracked with sleep, ankle throbbing dully— _must have twisted it while I was surfing yesterday_ — and the blood that was rushing to her head was threatening to blot out her vision completely with speckled, fizzy darkness. She shifted and her side gasped, stretching with a protesting pull of pain that had Eva growling darkly. Her hands shuffled through the sheets lethargically— _where the hell is my stupid phone… it’s probably dead, oh my God it’s too fucking early to deal with this shit_ — Giving up, Eva rolled without thinking, making to get up, legs still caught in the blankets. In her blind haste she rose, tottered, and fell just as quickly, crash landing into a heap on the hard floor.

_Okayyyy, so much for the carpet being soft— what the hell?_

Ripping the covers from her long legs— _why am I sweating? Jesus it’s so hot— do I have a fever? ‘Cause if I get one on the day we leave I swear_ — Eva shot up about as quickly as a defunct jack in the box, leaning against the bed for support as she rubbed her eyes and shouted tiredly, “Mom, what time is it? Am I late? Are we gonna miss our flight?!” When there was no response, she added, “My alarm clock didn’t go off, I’m sorry! Tell dad not to eat all the bacon!”  
Silence.

“Mom?”

Eva popped open an eye and nearly collapsed back onto the mess of stained blotchy black and white covers. Standing to the side of a large four poster, she had a great view of the huge, fancy room lain out innocently before her, looking to be about two centuries out of style. Her thoughts, a coagulated mishmash tangled and writhing, managed one coherent thought, the realization of which sent a stone as hot and heavy as a meteor plummeting like an avalanche into her belly: she was most definitely _not_ at home.

_But then where—?_

The thin, grotesquely puckered line that slanted across her upper left arm caught Eva’s attention as she moved to steady herself against the sturdy wooden frame of the four poster, clutching one of the beams with bleach white fingers in a desperate need for support. Angling her injured arm upwards, Eva felt her heart stutter dreadfully. The line was long and rucked, the skin folded like a pair of crinkled pink lips— healing. It looked like it was healing.

_A scar._

There was a flash of a knife in her mind’s eye, and with a gasp Eva ducked out of the way of the imaginary blade, hand finding the delicate material of her shirt and clutching tight. Wavering for a moment, Eva steeled herself before lifting the soft material, hands shakily ghosting over the raised edges of a much larger, much more tender snake of knit, healing flesh. Eva didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to accept that it was there and somehow, somehow she’d known it would be. She’d rather shove her face back into the pillow and smother herself dead, but something made her look. Kept her eyes glued to the stripe of raw skin. Some unseen force, some macabre hidden curiosity. A dreaded knowledge, buried somewhere deep in her mind, that there was more. More to remember.

And of course, there was.

A hundred pink dashes and lines littered her body, small and long, shallow and deep. The scars were mostly on her arms and legs, but a few had made their way up to her stomach. Her shoulder. Eva ducked away from the sight and entombed her eyes behind sweaty palms, head in hands. A laughable attempt to hide from the cutting board her body had become. She flinched away from her palms with a soft cry when they pressed into bruised, tender flesh that screamed indignantly.

 _What happened to me?_ She wanted to ask herself, to feign innocence a while longer— her own naivety— until the very last possible moment. Because she knew, just as any groggy person will when they jolt themselves awake from a nightmare. She knew she was awake, really awake. She knew why the scars littered her body, her arms and legs. A montage of memories slide like a showreel across the backs of her eyeballs as she’d examined her beaten, broken body. Versailles; the prison; her torture; and of course—

Eva shivered so violently she nearly puked.

That man. The one who had saved her, who had spooned out La Bête eye like it was any old Sunday morning breakfast.

 _Arno_.

Legs shaking, Eva stumbled her way off the platform that raised the fourposter a foot or so from the rest of the room and wobbled on shaky, numb legs towards the bright sky that peaked in through the open door ahead of her. Now that she remembered, now that her senses were tuned in and straining like a radio station bordering on static fuzz, Eva could distinctly pick up the sounds of muffled chatter and shouting, the clinking of cups, the stomp and scuffle of footsteps mingled with the clatter and whinny of horse and carriage. Shuffling in a way that was both parts shy and fearful into the wide doorframe, Eva paused, hand coming up to catch hold of her opposite arm and she leaned against the solid, cool wood. It was cool, refreshingly so— she could feel it in the knots of her pounding temple, the point of her elbow. With a jolt that more resembled a leaf floating to the surface of her consciousness, Eva realized that the last time she had felt anything remotely cold had been in the air conditioned haven of her parent’s rental car who knew how many days ago. The heat that lurked in her core hadn’t vanished, though. No, it still broiled, simmering, a flame dozing lazily in its hearth, ready to awaken at the drop of a match. Only Eva hadn’t the slightest idea what would cause it to fall.

A bang like a gun had Eva flinching violently away from the door frame, knocking her elbow hard as she skittered into the sunlight filled hall like a spooked cat. She tittered and nearly fell, akimbo on legs as unbalanced as a newborn foal’s as she spun around. There was a noise behind her, a shuffling skid that had her heart hightailing it into her stomach and her mind frizzing into a grainy slate grey, a TV stuck on static. At the opposite end of the corridor stood a tall man, his dark coat billowing out behind him as he slid to an abrupt halt. A mess of golden curls framed his face wildly, and in the quick glimpse she got of his features Eva realized that for all his height and toned muscle, the man couldn’t be any more than eighteen.

His eyes widened, a hand raising, and suddenly he was running at her.

“ _Stop!_ ” He shouted.

Eva backed up half a step, limbs locked in horror, heart beginning to beat like a winded racehorse’s. What was happening? Where was… what was his name? _Arno_. Where was he? The man’s long legs had already carried him nearly half the distance. Eva stuttered back a step. He looked a little too much like one of La Bête’s younger thugs for her liking. Pivoting on her heel quickly, Eva took off at a dead sprint—or at least she would have, if she hadn't found herself smacking right into a tray full of food, including a huge bowl of soup that flew up into the air nearly three feet. The woman carrying it screamed— the tray scattering it’s contents everywhere as the woman’s hands flew up to shield her face. Eva was gone before any of it was shoved back down by gravity, her nerves severed even further as the lady behind her continued to screech, soup splattering all over her neatly powered face. From somewhere behind her there was a loud burst of insane laughter. The bowls hit the floor then, their shattering intermingling with a final chuckling “stop!” from the man chasing her. Eva poured on the speed, legs blurring as she rounded a corner. Rooms and their contents shot by in a color-meshed rush as she twisted and turned through them blindly. Breath pulled greedily into her aching lungs and her head swam, but Eva refused to stop. Refused to be captured. Not today, not again. Not _ever_ again.

She slipped into a darkened study a panting mess, halting only for a shiver of a second to take in her surroundings— walls and walls of bookcases, a sturdy looking desk— before streaking to a nearby ladder and clambering up. She couldn’t hear any footsteps over the rush of her own labored breathing, but the horror of whoever was pursuing her possibly catching her unawares had her speeding up the final few rungs of the ladder. Her legs were moving even before she’d regained her footing— at the far end of the cozy loft was a couch littered with blankets and pillows, thrown together as if someone had slept there and never bothered to fold anything up. A slim coffee table covered in books and empty teacups was squished before it. A wide-paned window sat squarely behind it. Eva rushed to it, hands closing around the latch and yanking once, twice, before she gave up with a gasp of desperate frustration. For a moment she debated simply kicking the pane out, but images of the sharp shards raking up her legs had her spinning around again. Without hesitating Eva snatched up the china cups, saucers and all, and dumped them behind her carelessly. Her arms swept the books off the table, and she kicked the pile aside and upturned the table with a grunt and a stab of strength that a person only seems able to harness in the most dire of situations. The books sat amongst the china fragments in haphazard, chunky piles behind her makeshift fort between couch and table. Eva dove down into hard edges and pliant spines, knees scraping sharply, her hands trembling violently as she shoved leather-bound novels out of the way, the pads of her fingers sticking to the old paper as she hefted two into her grasp. Eva’s breath jogged her throat with hitching gasps of panic. Strings of blond hair clung to her sweaty neck and cheeks, and for a moment she felt the oncoming shudder of tears about to blossom. She swallowed them down thickly— Could she never catch a break?

The sudden, searing pinch of paper dragging itself sharply across her thumb was only a whisper in the whirring jamb of her mind, the warm well of blood slipping and curling along her skin hardly noticed. She stared unblinkingly at the uprighted table top, stealing herself— _is he here, is he looking for me, did he follow me? Oh God where is he_ — Images of the man creaking silently up the ladder, crawling slowly towards her battlement as she sat huddled amidst the book piles had a chill shudder through her. Eva peeked over the dark edge of the table without really meaning to, too mortified by the idea of being crept up on. If he was going to capture her ( _or worse_ ), whoever he was, he’d do it head on, not sneaking and slinking up on her like some spineless worm.

As her eyes crested the lip of the desk, Eva’s first thought was that her eyes were playing tricks on her. ‘ _Messin_ ,’ Riley would always say. Either way she twisted it, the conclusion was still the same: the study below was blissfully empty. No one crouched behind the tidy desk in the center or lounged in the shadows cast by the sun scrambling the bookcases into looming obscurity. And there was most certainly not anyone scaling the ladder in silent pursuit of her. Nothing; void.  
In her hands the hefty volumes suddenly seemed as heavy as ivory elephant tusks. She dropped them, hissing as her pinky finger clipped the bitingly sharp edge of a broken china cup, fresh blood spurting an arc into the air. Wiping her bleeding fingers onto the front of her tattered shirt— it hung on her like a beaten, battle worn sail— Eva buried her head in her hands with a whimpering, pitiful sob. Her heart was beating into her throat so violently that her temples were beginning to throb a booming rhythm. Eva nearly gagged on her frustration, her anger. Her fright. She wanted out— she wanted away from this fucking mess for good. And for the love of God she wanted to stop bleeding.

Hurried footfalls pounded down the hall that led to the study. Eva’s fingers twitched from where they’d plastered themselves over her eyes. The breath in her throat went sour in her constricting lungs, and all she could manage in her dread was the jackknife twitch of her lips parting, gaping in a breathless gasp of horror and denial.

_No, no, no, he can’t find me._

Defiantly the footsteps only seemed to echo closer. Reaching around her blindly, Eva grasped a heavy volume. A fire— _her fire_ — was beginning to stoke itself within her core, and as Eva’s fingers curled vice-like around the book’s spine it whined, the first smoking crackle of the burning leather cover popping hotly in protest to the sudden heat. She ignored it, sitting huddled and trembling with a smoldering book in each white-hot hand until the footsteps rapped to a halt at the entrance to the study.

 _Oh God,_ Eva’s mind was lost in a thick, smoky white shroud. Her panic had caused it to feel separate from the rest of her, detached, like a boat slowly drifting from a dock. _Oh God, oh God._ He would be climbing it now, the ladder. Any moment a sneering, gleeful face would appear around the corner of the desk with another raucous cackle and she would be caught. Captured, just like that. Blood was dripping from the slits on her fingers, rolling down the uneven pages of the books she held.

_No, not just like that._

She wasn’t going down without a fight. Fuck just lying down and dying.

What occurred next happened so suddenly and so swiftly that reflecting upon it several nights later, Eva was nearly certain that it couldn’t have been avoided.

A voice called up to her and Eva recognized her name with a surprised blink. At the same time she was already in motion, hurling herself upwards past the safety of the overturned desk, throwing herself halfway over her makeshift battlement, the smoking book in her right hand cocked so far back it hurt her arm when it rocketed forward. The mass of crinkled paper and bound leather sailed through the air curiously fast for such a heavy book, and smacked her pursuer with a satisfying ka- _thud_ squarely in the chest, bowling him over so rapidly it was bordering on comical. Eva gasped, eyebrows rocketing to her hairline as she struggled to her feet. It had knocked him flat!

Of their own accord her sticky, blood covered thumb and forefinger rose to caress the chain of her necklace, gripping it tightly, fingers nervously toying their way down to the flat disc-like medallion that clunked against her throat heavily. Down below the man was cursing violently in French, rolling onto his hands and knees as he scraped himself off the floor. _I need to move_ , Eva thought, before he regains his footing. Or maybe she could just stay up here until her ‘ammo’ ran out— her aim was fair, and she was pretty certain that getting hit repeatedly with huge books would be enough to deter anyone after a while. Eva could have moved, could have easily scaled the ladder or climbed over the railing and dropped to the floor and leapt over the man and out the door, but something inside her made her stay put. Some unknown force, holding her pinned like a bug on a display piece of cardboard. Her fingers glided across the bumpy gold grooves of her necklace, slick with blood— _this guy is gonna start yelling at me, guaranteed, and I’m not gonna have a fucking clue what he’s saying. Again. This would all be so much fucking simpler if I knew even a little bit of French_ — A moment later, pulled from her reverie by the sting of tattered, wet skin thumbing across the ridges of her necklace. Eva realized her mistake and wrenched her hand from her necklace with a cry of dismay, but not before a surge of energy rushed from the tips of her ears down to her toes, ripping and pulling at her strength as it washed itself from her body all at once.

Eva stumbled, breath heaving roughly as she clutched at the side of the desk for support. Her hands landed instead on the railing, and she sagged so heavily against it that the wood groaned and creaked dangerously. Eva suddenly felt exhausted, like she’d just dragged herself headlong out of an insanely strong rip-current. The fire that had burned within her ever since she’d woken up in the gardens of Versailles was doused abruptly, and with it went one of her legs, knee buckling weakly. Down below the man was on his feet, dusting himself off and turning around, shooting her with a glare that was half exasperation and all worry. Eva wavered on her feet, heel slipping back a half-step, knee threatening to cave. Her shocked gasp caught in her throat, but that was all the reaction she could muster. The rest of her was too tired, too numb. Exhausted.

She used the last of her strength to call his name.

“ _Arno?_ ”

Arno sighed, shaking his head. “I’m guessing you though I was Alex? Not that you know who that— _Hey!_ ” Arno darted forward even as the black spots eating away at her vision won its mind numbing battle and sent Eva pitching half consciously over the railing. He caught her with a grunt, the jostling of her head against his shoulder— her cheek grazing the rough stubble of his jaw— enough to pull her back from the blackness. Eva blinked, taking a breath that expanded her singing lungs gloriously. Her senses slid back into place like a pair of glasses alighting their perch on the bridge of her nose, and suddenly she could clearly see the man staring, bewildered, down at her. She was tired still, yes, _exhausted_ , but at least she wasn’t dead. At least he was here.

Her current situation suddenly slapped her in the face like a block of ice.

 _Wait a—_ Whoa _, wait a sec!_

He was cradling her arms strong around her torso, a hand supporting her head gently. And his eyes, his nose, _mouthlips_ — they were so close. Eva felt a red hot blush streak upwards, staining her cheeks pink. Embarrassed, she groaned, weakly pushing herself out of Arno’s grasp. He let her go immediately— more shocked than anything— and she tumbled, landing on her butt and scrambling a moment later to her feet only to stumble into a bookcase. The lightheadedness passed pokily, and silently Eva pleaded that she would not black out again. Once over the side of a freaking railing was enough.

_I am such a fucking mess._

Dusting herself off her gaze drifted upwards, catching Arno’s curious, unflinching stare. His arms were crossed, a false expression of seriousness battling against the smug, twitching curve of the corner of his mouth. He looked like he wanted to laugh. Eva didn’t blame him— she’d just pitched herself over the fucking balcony, for Christ’s sake. She would have laughed too, if they’re positions were switched. _Actually no, I wouldn’t. I’d probably be dead, ‘cause he would definitely crush me._ She cast her pale green gaze over him, up and down in a swift once over, feeling like she was seeing him— taking him in— for the first time.

He was tall, but so was she. If Eva had to guess, she’d probably place him in the ballpark of five ten or eleven. Twenty six, twenty seven… maybe… Slender. Muscular— _hot damn I bet he has a six-pack and a half under all those layers_ — and graceful as all hell on his feet. Oh, and it was kind of hard to miss that he was handsome. _Very_ handsome. _Jesus Christ he blows every guy and their brother out of the ballpark at Humboldt. Fuck. Are you kidding me?_ Fuck.

Eva nearly groaned, throwing her head back as her eyes rolled to the ceiling in annoyance. Why the _hell_ did he have to be hot? Taking a shaky step away from the bookcase, Eva sighed. _Well, look at the bright side of things, at least when he starts speaking French you have something nice to look at while you’re mentally blanking. Or, y’know, while you’re trying to decipher his English._ The thought immediately caused a snicker to flit across her lips, and she snorted, leaning heavily against the bookcase.

Arno blinked, brow arching, head cocked; Eva could almost hear the question that was probably pinging around in his mind. _What the fuck is wrong with this girl?_ Or maybe it was more along the lines of: _this bitch is insane, why did I just save her for the hundredth time?_

 _Shoulda let me face-plant the floor, man._ Honestly, she couldn’t blame him for thinking she was the craziest thing around since the invention of the selfie. After all, she’d just clobbered him with an ancient book and took a swan dive over the loft’s freaking banisters. Eva shifted awkwardly on her feet, balancing as she scratched her heel with the toe of her opposite shoe, left hand working on a rather persistent kink in the back of her neck. She coughed. Arno stared. He was leaning against the desk, arms crossed, eye trained on her like a sniper’s target. It suddenly occurred to Eva that he was looking at her like she were some new, bizarre species of animal.

_Fan-fucking-tastic. By the way, are you by any chance free tonight—_

“Uh, thanks for catching me there man.” She rolled her eyes away from him towards the ceiling and winced. Sighing, trying to break the awkwardness. She couldn’t, though. She was on a roll. “And, y’know, saving my ass from La Bête…” _Can he even understand all of this? Jesus, this is more awkward than that time you had to present that slideshow in sex ed_ — Arno still hadn’t spoken, and the way his dark eyes sank into her own had Eva squirming. “You da real MVP.” _Oh my God, I need to shut up, someone shut me up someone throw a book at me ugh._ “Uh…” Eva took a step forward, hands clasped tightly behind her back, the toe of her converse squeaking against the hardwood floor as she dragged it slowly after her. “Look, I’m really grateful for everything, _seriously_ , you saved my ass like ten times… but would you happen to have a phone I could borrow…” She glanced upwards, directly into his eyes without meaning to, and saw the confusion and shock hovering plain as day in the forest green of his irises. Eva panicked and began to babble again. “O-o-or maybe you could just call the police yourself, since I don’t speak French an-and lemme _tell you_ , if I do, that conversation will just be such a fucking shitshow and—”

A hand shot up, encased in the rich black leather of a well tailored glove, and Eva faltered. Her pacing feet skidded to a halt not three feet in-front of him. “Stop,” Arno said, and Eva blinked at the crisp clarity of his voice. “Just, stop for, for a second.” His voice was low, smooth. And clearly strained. _Great, I’ve probably overloaded his internal stress-meter for the decade._ Blowing a tuft of bedraggled blond hair out of her eyes, Eva suddenly froze. _Wait a secon—_ “Wait— hold the fuck up, when did you lose your accent?”

Arno started, the look of pure bewilderment cast her way enough to make Eva’s skin crawl. Her stomach jittered, unsettled. Something wasn’t right.

“ _Accent?_ ”

He sounded so… so _confused_. Something was definitely off. Holding up a finger, Arno shifted so that that he was half sitting on the desk, crossing his legs before cocking his head and narrowing his eyes. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, and shaking his head he grasped his furrowed brow with slender fingers and emitted a sigh that would have given an overworked grade-school teacher a vicious run for their money. Eva was nearly about to say something— anything— she was so uncomfortable and confused and damn _tired_ … when he spoke.

“When,” he sighed, “no, _why_ — why didn’t you speak French before?”

It was her turn to be baffled. Eva felt her mouth pop open, felt the crinkle of her brow as she frowned, squinting at Arno with a look of such utter confusion and bafflement that— if she could have seen herself— resembled Arno’s almost identically. Taking in a long breath, Eva blew it out in a breathy “ _What?!_ ”— Arno’s face remained impassive, arms crossed once more, and without thinking Eva pointed to herself before whirling around in a circle.

“You, you mean me? You’re talking to _me_ , right?”

Without missing a beat, Arno snorted. “No, the armchair in the corner actually, could you move to the left a little, you’re blocking my view.”  
Eva balked at the sarcasm that dripped from his words before sticking out a leg and sliding theatrically to the left, “thereee ya go…” Her eyes never left Arno, who was fighting down a snicker. “I don’t even know how to fucking respond to any of this.” She muttered. “Like, you’re aware we are actually speaking English, right? I-I don’t even know how to explain this. You’re just pulling my leg, right? You’re just pulling my leg ‘cause I’m probably the biggest thorn in your side this week?”

Arno hesitated before shrugging, the smirk that graced his lips ripping a thrill through her heart so violently that Eva had to look away for a moment. “Well you’re right about one thing at least… You are kidding with me, right? You do know you’re speaking French to me.”

Eva bristled instantly. _What, is this guy crazy or something? Y’know what, with my recent track record why am I even surprised?_

“No, no I'm not. I-I’m not, we’re speaking English.”

Arno sighed. “Ah, n _oo_. Perfect French.”

“Perfect English.”

“French.” Arno droned.

“ _English_.” Eva bit back.

But even as the syllables hissed from between gritted teeth she knew that she was wrong and Arno was right. She knew, like a mother might know something was wrong with her child— a gut feeling, a deep archaic natural instinct. All at once she _understood_ , and the answer that came to her was so simple and obvious and _impossible_ that for a moment Eva couldn’t believe it— she wouldn’t. And then (because how could you go through seemingly endless days of burning like a hot stove and not believe) she did, and the acceptance was like a train ramming into the soft, tender pink of her brain: It was the medallion. The proof was all strewn out in front of her, like clues to some huge murder mystery show. She’d gotten blood on the medallion back in the gardens of Versailles and had woken up… well… wherever _here_ was. La Bête had smeared her blood across the room back in the prison, onto her necklace ( _and I’d understood him suddenly_ ). And now— now— The cuts on her fingers, deep and aching. She’d grabbed nervously at her necklace right before she’d fallen. _Don’t get blood on that necklace Evangeline!_ Her mother would always scold her when she’d be zipping up her wetsuit. _It would be a real shame._ Somehow, in some weird, Harry Potter on crack way, the necklace had done this to her. The weight of the realization hit Eva like a brick to the head and stomach all at once. She staggered ( _a real shame_ ) planting a hand on the edge of Arno’s desk, a hand coming up to clutch at her hair.

“J _eeeeeezus_ fucking Christ.” Eva moaned, dragging her hand down over her face. “Holy shit. H _oolllly_ fucking— Oh my God— Oh my _God_ — What the fuck?” Eva threw her hands up in the air. “What the fuckwhatthefuck. Are you kidding me?”

Arno frowned, shifting uncomfortably beside her. “Umm, are you going to attack me if I say no?”

Eva huffed and glared at him before running her trembling fingers through her hair, hands falling to her hips. She swiveled so that she was facing him, her hair a fray framing her pale cheeks, and swallowed. “ _So_ …” she said slowly, matter of fact. “Um so yeah, I’d just like to throw it out there and say surprise, apparently I can speak fluent French.”

If Arno had rolled his eyes any higher Eva was sure they would have gotten stuck. “And do I get an explanation for this or…?”

“No,” Eva said bluntly, turning so that her back was to the desk, hands clutching its smooth edge behind her. For a moment she faltered, surprised at how close Arno actually was— not three feet away— taking in his strange outfit, the breeches, his long blue coat. Then she blinked and cleared her throat. “Not until I get a phone call.” Her voice sounded firm, not like the wobbly jello the rest of her body felt like, and for that Eva was grateful.

“Ok _ay_.” The man before her let his head fall back for a moment, eyes closing and huffing exasperatedly. Waving a gloved hand in the air dismissively, he hooked her with a sideways frown. “Then if you insist on keeping that little mystery a secret, at least answer me this…”

“Shoot.”  “What is a ‘ _phone_ ’? Did I say that correctly?”

“What is a…?” Eva felt all the air whoosh out of her at once, her chest cavity feeling like it was going to fold in and collapse into her stomach at any moment. Reaching up a finger (which trembled madly, though she refused to acknowledge it’s shivering presence in her vision’s periphery) Eva jabbed it at Arno. “Stop it.” She hissed, “Knock it the fuck off. This isn’t a joke.”

“What?” Arno snapped back indignantly. “It was a serious question!”

She could feel the tears coming, clogging her nose with mucous and stinging her eyes like wasp pricks. “Cut the shit,” Eva didn’t even care that her voice was as wavery as a drunken gymnast, nor that her tone had taken on a rough, pleading quality that made the air she gasped in taste sour and thick. She was tired, she was lonely, and she was pretty sure that she would need a good bit of counseling after such a dramatic experience. Also, Eva was half convinced she’d developed some new kind of disease— _is there a form of Ebola that can cause my skin to be able to bake cookies on it?_ She didn’t have time for this shit, this playful beating around the bush. “Please stop it. _Stop_ messing with me… Where am I anyways?” A tear had begun to mosey its way down her cheek innocently, and angrily Eva reached up a fist and dragged it across her cheekbone with a low sniffle. “Do you have a phone, can I call my parents?” She asked thickly. “Please?”

Arno’s face was impassive besides the slight parting of his lips. His eyes, though, his eyes were a brilliant spasm of emotion, a firework erupting vividly into the night sky of his dark green irises. Shock, a disoriented confusion, disquieted unease— in that one transient moment of their eyes meeting Eva saw his utter bafflement, his thoughts tangling up and his confounded mind a muddled mess. _He has no idea how to handle this situation…_ The thought slipped from the cracks of his stoic armor and writhed its way into her mind. Arno was just as confused as she was, and the realization of their joint unsureness had her breath catching in her throat in short, painful gasps.

“Hey,” Arno called, snapping from his momentary trance, foot sliding forward warily. “Eva, breath. _Breath_. Calm down.”

The wind snaked and surged down her throat and up again, ripping at the tender flesh of her throat as stars began to float in spotty clumps before her eyes. “Don’t… tell… _me_ to… calm down!” She wheezed. Her skin festered and hissed with a dangerously rising heat, her vision hazy, and something about the way it swam told Eva that this time, it wasn’t tears. Rather, it reminded her of the distorted shimmer held by an object when one stares at it through the wavy heat of a grill or a campfire. Arno must have noticed, because in the next instant he was before her, gripping her shoulders and leveling his face with her own. A wisp of that smell, the one from before, the one from the pillow— so wonderful and foreign and wild and _alluring_ — sailed in front of her nose when he leaned closer.

“You need to calm down,” he was saying, murmuring, and blinking Eva felt her eyes go wide at how close he actually was to her. Another few inches and their noses would have brushed. A part of her, the part that was nearly half insane with fear and disorientation, chuckled internally— _Oh, sexy._

“Look, I don’t know what happened to you or why La Bête captured you, but we’re not going to get anywhere if you stop breathing and collapse.” Arno snapped, “ _Again_.” The solid, strong pull of his fingers gripping at her skin and the pointed bones of her shoulders had Eva sucking in a mouthful of air so fast that she wheezed noisily on the exhale. Her legs quivered and seesawed, the heat burned and smoldered within her, and reaching out a hand Eva gripped Arno’s forearm tentatively as she steadied herself, fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve, eyes fixed on the space in the floorboards between their shoes. She didn’t recall Arno helping her into the chair beside the elegant desk, but he must have, because the next thing she knew Eva’s fingers had relinquished their hold on his forearm and were clutching the chair’s arms in a death grip. Arno glanced from his unmarred coat sleeve to her hands nervously. Her palms were hot and sweaty, but nowhere near the furnace her skin had been even yesterday.

Eva stared at her lap, ignoring Arno for as long as she possible could as he paced back and forth before her. A part of her wandered if he were as deep in thought as she were— he must be, since he’d nearly run into her chair twice— but the majority of Eva’s mind was still ensnared in the laughably insane attempt at trying to comprehend her reality at the moment. Her lips parted, and Eva was just about to ask Arno if she could borrow a phone (again) when he spun suddenly, the look of determination dominating his features and the line of his brow moldering at the sight of her anxious, tear-streaked distress. He faltered, glanced away as if debating something, before blinking back up at her uncertainly. A strand of brown hair had escaped the ribbon that messily tied it all back in a ponytail and drifted against the handsome rise of his cheekbone idly.

“What—” Arno licked his lips, arms rising, dropping, hands balling into fists. “Please don’t get upset.”He added quickly, a hand raising out towards her warily. Eva only eyed him. “What is a ‘ _phone_ ’?” He said it with a hitch in his voice, twisted and warped. Foreign. The word was foreign to him.

Eva shook her head, scooting forward and balancing her elbows on her knees, clasping her hands. _Jesus Christ, he said the word like he’s never heard of it before._ And maybe he hadn’t. The idea was almost too much to bear, and as much as she tried to shut it out, it persisted, knocking against her skull obnoxiously. _The way they dress, all of them, her mind rang and rattled, the way everything looks so… old. Antique. And he doesn’t even know what a phone is…_ A soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips, and burying her head in her hands Eva blinked rapidly against the bleary little tears that floated at the corners of her eyes. It was almost a dream, the thought that festered and bumped persistently around her head. A nightmare, a ludicrous imagining of children. A comically bad movie. There was no way, no fucking way, that it could be possible. Things like that just didn’t fucking happen.

But it made sense. It made sense, and that scared her so much it was almost unbearable.  
Eva lifted her head, eyes peeking out from behind the safety of her hands, and caught Arno’s gaze. He looked like he wanted to say something, his brows raised in concern— rather, she thought it was concern, he might just be incredibly bugged over the limits of her sanity— and so she held up a finger and gathered herself (or at least tried to) for what seemed like an hour at the very minimum, but was really all of five minutes. Twice Eva decided firmly that she simply wouldn’t ask the question, the one she knew would rock her world. Would send her spiraling into lunacy. _Madness_. But she had to ask, had to clear this hump. Had to move on, get it over with. A small part of her was still clinging to the hope that maybe, maybe she was wrong, that her overactive imagination, her fatigue, had drawn up a ridiculous conclusion that was absurdly impossible. There was only one way to find out.

She steeled herself.

“What—“ Eva croaked, licking her lips with a tongue as dry and rough as freshly cut sandpaper. Arno stilled, looking at her expectantly, curiously. She was as alien to him as the words she used, an unpredictability. And that unsettled him.

“What is the date?”

Arno frowned, eyes crinkling as he squinted at her. “The _date_?” He asked dubiously.

Eva could only nod, all quivering limbs and bated breath.

“Ah,” his eyes flicked to the ceiling. “Last I checked it was the fifteenth of October.”

Eva’s breath caught in her throat and Arno tensed, eyeing her for any sign of another breathing fit. October fifteenth. She’d gone to Versailles with her parents on the twenty-ninth of September. She’d been missing for over two weeks.

The room seemed to be spinning, Eva’s sweaty fingers were sticking together and her panicked heart was hammering. Arno took a step forward and she shook her head, gasping loudly. “The year?” She choked. “ _Tell me the year._ ”

Arno’s voice was clear and smooth and alarmingly, frighteningly calm when he almost offhandedly replied:

“Seventeen ninety-six.”

Eva tried to swallow and couldn’t. If this were a movie, she would dead faint away right now. If this were a movie someone would burst through the doors and magically have a way to get her back to her own time ( _I’m stuck here_ ). If this were a movie, everything would end up okay. But this wasn’t a movie and she wasn’t okay. She was lost ( _stuck_ ), lost in a time she knew nothing about, and her parents probably thought she was dead and long gone (stuckstuckstuck). _Well, they’re right about one thing._

_Seventeen ninety-six._

Eva wanted to throw back her head and scream. To puke. To faint. To smack herself so hard she woke up from this nightmare coma that wasn’t a comaitwasreal _realreal_ — Instead she threw herself from her seat, sprinting past Arno to the window and wrenching it open. What she saw made her hand slip from the window’s edge and fall to her side numbly. Eva’s gaze swiveled mechanically back to Arno’s. She felt like she was free-falling, even though her feet were planted firmly— almost too firmly, her knees locked and trembling— beneath her.

“ _Fuck_.”


	8. Huit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then it had really hit, the realization that there was a loophole, a light at the end of this ridiculously long tunnel: her phone was proof. Proof that she wasn’t crazy. Proof that she was where she said she was from— the future. Her phone could hold the key to her salvation, her survival. But only if it’s battery didn’t die. Time was short if not already run out— it had been two weeks after all. Not to mention the actual task of retrieving her bag, if such a thing was even possible… It was lost somewhere in that hovel of a makeshift prison that sat under La Bête's absurdly ostentatious lair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Mushu from that scene in Mulan right now— I _liiiiiiive!_ No but seriously, hi guys, how are you? It’s been a while, I know, and I apologize. Cross country is honestly the biggest thing that’s keeping me from writing (I’m always so tired, haha), not to mention it was my birthday last week so NOTHING got done… but I’ve been trying here and there every day to fit in some time (*cough* class…). So here we have Eva’s story beginning to gain some momentum. She’s still a bit teary and pitiful, but I mean come on wouldn’t you be? Like any good heroin she needs time to grow into her own :) Anyways, thank you everyone who has kudos/commented/enjoyed this story!
> 
>  **SilverZelenia -** Yes yes, I'm sorry it took so long again! Omg, I don't know how much you're following Syndicate but yesterday I saw this gif someone had done of the twins and they are such cuties! I can't wait to play it! Oh lordy, what a question. I'm currently running cross country and we're not too bad! We have a serious chance to win Championships :D I also ride on my college's equestrian team (all dah fluffy horses!). As far as clubs, I'm in the history club and part of the SGA Senate. You're a senior in high school? So is my sister! Where do you plan on studying afterwards? I LOVE Arno's snark, it gives me life, seriously, Unity had me dying it's so full of it (and its all Arno haha). I'm so glad you love my writing style, it makes my day :D
> 
>  **scarletflamedance -** It was a HUGE chapter right? Oh my God my hands were cramping after I finished haha! Sorry (not sorry) about the cliffhanger! It just happened! I really hope you like this update, not as long but definitely more interaction between Arno and Eva. 
> 
> **MB_oo -** YES. This comment had me do a little fist pump haha! I'm one of those people who rereads fics multiple times too... Thank you by the way, I really love describing the more minuscule details, I feel like they can only serve to better immerse you in the story :)
> 
> \- Chapter Music:  
>  _* Paradox - Hans Zimmer_  
>  _* What Came Before - Lorne Balfe_  
>  _* House of Black and White - Ramin Djawadi_  
>  _* All Gone (Overcome) - Gustavo Santaolalla_  
>  \- Morg
> 
> * * *

**Alice**

“This is impossible.”

 **The Mad Hatter**  

“Only if you believe it is.”

\- Lewis Carroll, _Alice in Wonderland_

 

_**Date: October 16th, 1796** _

She had commandeered the desk’s chair and was slumped across the rich wooden surface dismally, head buried beneath the creamy pale skin of her arms. Arno was lurking somewhere by the window; Eva experiencing a mild panic attack at the sound of a horse and carriage skittering across the cobblestone outside having prompted him to swing it shut in a rush. The study had been silent for nearly ten minutes and still Eva felt no closer to speaking. Her lips remained cinched together tightly, pressed into a hard line as her hunched shoulders trembled. From where she hid beneath her arms a tributary of fresh tears had branched down from her cheeks and was slowly pooling in the cavern-like darkness beneath her crossed arms and bent head. Her mind was blown to the wind, like she had rolled down a car window and stuck her head out into the slipstream of buffeting, eighty mile per hour blast. Everything was jumbled up and scrambled left and right— each thought only managing to stick to coherency for a second before it was back in the battering gale, a new one replacing it.

 _Who, what, when, where, why?—_ She wasn’t clueless enough to not have realized what particular era of time she’d supposedly landed in. The tail end of the French Revolution wasn’t nearly as bad as the actual ongoing mess, but it still wasn’t _ideal_. Where was she, anyways? What part of France? And with who? Eva lifted her head an inch or so off the table, watery eyes gusseting with the smooth royal blue of Arno’s cloak, trailing up to where his own gaze stared distantly out the window. Who really was this man, and why had she dreamt of him before? Why had she had any of those dreams? Why was she here? And how did she get back? Sitting up slightly in her chair, Eva winced as the old wood squeaked beneath her before drawing up her legs and brushing her hair from her sticky cheeks. A sudden, fresh stream of tears pearled from the corners of her eyes and with a hitched sob so soft she barely heard it Eva slid her hands down her face, palms collecting the beads of moisture that dripped down her reddened skin. What did she have to do to get out of here? Or was there no answer… Was she stuck; forever _stuck_ in this place, a mere face in the crowd of a nation— a world— where she knew not one soul.

The thought should have caused the real waterworks; tears that blinded and sobs that could not be muffled by the soft side of a hand. Instead Eva let her fingers slide from over her eyes, wicking away the last of the moisture that dotted her skin as she sat back in the creaking chair with a whooshing gasp of a breath. The sound caught Arno’s attention, who seemed to have been forcing himself to not engage in her— for lack of a better term— meltdown. He _had_ tried when she’d first sunk into the chair to ask her a question or two, but all Eva had done was shake her head as her breathing siphoned in and out of her throat like a piston. Now he turned towards her almost shyly, the unsureness much more pronounced in the green of his eyes as he drew closer to the desk. He hesitated there for a moment before placing his hands tentatively palms down against the smooth wood, leaning forward and ducking his head slightly so that he could catch her eyes. There were tiny, silvery slivers that serpentined from her eyes down to the edges of her chin, individual streams of drying tears that he had not heard her cry, but known were flowing nonetheless by the gentle tremor of her back. The shake of her shoulders. Arno swallowed, a thick brow arching almost imperceptibly as he gazed at her.

“I understand that this has all been incredibly traumatic.” He began slowly, and Eva couldn’t help but shiver at the clearness of his voice— the impeccable lull to his words. Perfect.

_No accent._

“I—” Arno frowned, seemed to rethink his words. “I honestly have never dealt with a situation like this before.” He confessed. Eva didn’t so much as blink, gaze trained on the wall behind him. “But if there’s anything I can do, anything that would help—”

“Kill me?” She whispered, and the words seemed to shatter the feigned placidness between them. Her eyes drifted until they caught his own. The thought had not been one she’d been dwelling on— something turned inexplicably head over heels in her mind, a notion to be grasped and decided upon. No, the words had merely come, sprouting from her lips like phantoms drifting through halls. A surprise. But she meant every word wholeheartedly.

Arno’s face was pale, and there was a look of stark pain laced into the lulling, almost obsidian green of his eyes. A horrified pain, an unspoken sadness. Some grief that he’d buried, perhaps, being tugged to the surface. His lips parted, his entire body a rigid hesitation. Frozen, teetering, as if he were on the brink of some unknown thing and couldn’t pull himself forward or back. Eva watched him detachedly, saw the whisper of movement as his lips mouthed a single muted word.

_“What?”_

It was one of the only times Eva would ever manage to truly catch him off guard, though neither knew that yet.

Eva shrugged, the chuckle escaping her not entirely _there_. Unhinged, like she was two seconds from falling over some brink into a huge black canyon— _Yeah_. That’s what it sounded like. Arno resisted the urge to shiver, eyeing her as she stood heavily from her seat and began to pace her way towards the bookcases in the corner of the room furthest away from the windows. Silently he watched as a pale, milky white hand came up to skim the titles, fingers caressing the spines as gently as if they were baby’s scalps, fluff and all.

“There’s a movie,” Eva said suddenly, quietly, continuing to scan the novels row by row. “Where… where I’m from— not that you’d know what a ‘movie’ is, anyways…” Her voice broke for a moment. It had a funny hitch to it, like something was stuck in her throat or she was trying too hard to hold back a sob. “The guy in it, Dominick… he could slip into the subconscious. Crack it.” Eva turned, the half-smile she sent Arno’s way so watery he nearly drowned in the sad crook of her pink lips. “ _Dreams_.” Eva whispered. “The dreamworld was his speciality, he knew it like an old friend… in the movie you never really knew when he was dreaming and when he was awake. But,” here Eva turned, having selected a tiny book embossed with beautiful, pale blue script. She paged through it as she spoke. “if you were dreaming and you died… or were killed…” She caught Arno’s eye and saw there the raw mania of a knowledge not previously manifested. Not known. “You woke up.”

Arno hadn’t moved so much as a muscle, and the expression that had slowly crept up his chiseled jawline and wrapped itself around his features spoke half of a doubtful concern at her sanity and half of confused curiosity. She saw the faint gleam in Arno’s eye, caught the flicker of mesmerized thoughts clashing and colliding into one another as his mind walked over itself, trying to make sense of her words. He wondered at her, this lost girl who spoke mysteries and acted strange and said things far stranger. And that wonder she could see in the cock of his head and the tightening of his hands upon the lip of the desk. The way his lips parted as if to speak, though he remained silent, fixated. Suddenly Eva was unsure, a deep foreboding that slunk up her leg and into her stomach. Into her heart. What if she told him who she was— _what_ she was— and he became afraid. Didn’t believe her. Thought her deranged. Called her a witch. Killed her— and a person would have to be seriously immersed in their mindless doodles in high school to miss how people were usually killed during the French Revolution…

It would, after all, make more sense if the outcome of all of this led to something along those lines, versus Arno actually _believing_ any of the insane sounding things she was about to say. She would have to tell him, in the end, where she was from. Not because she wanted to, but because she needed to. Eva couldn’t do this on her own, as much as she wished she could. The task was too grand, and if there was a person out there who had answers on how to return her to the _future_ — Eva shivered at the word— having the aid of someone from the past might just be the key in finding her ticket home.

Taking a breath she spun around. Her tumultuous thoughts she pushed down and away, ignoring, refusing to dwell on them as she closed the distance between them and sat on the desk beside Arno. He almost seemed like he wanted to move away (though to his credit he did no more than track her motion with the solid green of his gaze) and she eyed him briefly before sighing loudly. She knew she was awake. Funnily enough, Eva had never felt more alive as in that moment. It seemed as if the very atoms that made up her being were singing, screaming with a thrumming pitch that had her all aquiver. But like with all things concerning human nature, a part of her doubted. A part of her insisted on trying every outlet, every _possibility_ , before submitting to such madness as this. As _time-traveling._

So,” Eva closed the book with a snap and spun so that she faced him fully. “Kill me.” _And maybe I’ll wake up._ As insane as it sounded, the other option— the very real, very evident one that she now faced alone— was absolutely moonstruck mad. The desk groaned as Arno shifted towards her, and the ridges that floated across his furrowed brow seemed almost strained in their numbers. He seemed concerned, worried for her in a way that Eva had not expected to see reflected in his dark eyes. The realization caught her heart in her throat as a ghost of breath slipped from between the pale pink of her lips. Hope blossomed in the darkness, a faint pale light. Perhaps he wouldn’t hurt her, if she told him the truth. Revealed her origins. Perhaps… Perhaps… _Perhaps_ he cared, if only a little bit… the events of the past two weeks having bashfully forged a small budding connection, unknown, unrealized until this point. Somewhere along the outer fringes of her mind ghosted a memory which morphed into two, of Arno helping her back into bed from the cold hard floor, of him sitting with her, shushing her, clutching her hand through all the overwhelming pain. A pale link, fragile and crude. A raw line that ran from he to her and back. A bond.

He _had_ saved her, after all.

“You want me…” Arno shook his head disbelievingly. “…to kill you.” It was a statement.

“Yes.” Eva wasn’t sure if she truly meant it, or if she still believed she would wake up if he wrung her neck till all her bones popped. She just wasn’t. The only thing she was sure of, ironically enough, was the depth of her confusion.

“I can’t tell if you’re insane or just suicidal.” Arno muttered, his frown contorted with enough irritation to send her scooting back an inch. The simplicity of her answer must have annoyed him. He was facing her fully, giving Eva a grand view of his noblesse getup. The shimmer of each button, the golden trim that laced its way up his hood, framing it grandly. All the decorations and trimmings, belts (and boy were there a lot of those), buttons and the smooth crinkling of fine fabric. Even his waistcoat looked more expensive than half the Coach bags Eva pretended like she could afford.

Eva gulped, suddenly hesitant to continue. There was something about the way his body had just tensed, eyes flickering up to hers for a moment that had her on edge. “Neither.” She whispered.

“Why then? After all the trouble I went to save you, why do you want to—”

“Because this isn’t _real!_ ” Eva cried bitterly. “You wouldn’t understand, if it works and I wake up—!”

The speed at which he moved was borderline superhuman, rolling off the desk in one fluid motion so quickly she barely had time to react. Eva blinked once— only once— in the shock of it all, flinching backwards as he seemed to dematerialize before her very eyes. A hand suddenly was palming her scalp, fingers ensnarling themselves deeply into the golden waves as her head was yanked backwards. Something hard and glinting and coldly sharp slid with a sickly pressure against the soft skin of her neck, pinching the skin as a gasp of terror coughed from her lungs. He held her like that, head pulled back, exposed neck rubbing raw against the pressure of some unseen blade, but for all her terror Eva couldn’t help but notice the almost hesitant stutter to his motions. While none of it was by no means gentle, something told her that Arno could have been dreadfully more violent… and with that would have come more pain. He’d held back. Eva realized this even as his grip on her hair tightened. He’d held back and that meant that he could have done so, so much more to her in just that flashing second and who just who the fuck was she dealing with and why hadn’t he killed her yet, what was he waiting for, what what _what_ —?

“Do you still want me to kill you?” Arno whispered, though curiously enough, not unkindly. The cruel chuckle of the knife slipping across her skin nearly made Eva faint— she heard the blood lapping beneath, the syrupy liquid spilling from the cut that was gradually opening it’s smiling mouth across her skin. A dribble of it drooled into the hollow of her neck. Eva’s eyes dilated, and something in her snapped.

A flicker had been struck in the pit of her stomach, a small little thing that suddenly screamed and raged as if it were an animal’s last dying screech. Her anger doused it, soaking it into an exploding heat, morphing the small match-light of flame into an inferno uncontrollable in its escape. Up it shot, up up through her bones, skating and ducking and dodging along her veins until it was sizzling like a summer sun’s heat into her skin. With a roar Eva grabbed hold of it, let it detonate into the curves of her fingerprints, the lines of her palms. It flared as she turned, whipping like an erratic gale screaming past the pain in her scalp as her hand flew, fingers like claws as her arm shot backwards, digging, ripping, scratching— mauling at whatever exposed skin her fingers could skitter across. Her right hand had flown up simultaneously, was clutching at the arm that held the knife to her throat— there was smoke in her eyes, her nose, her mouth, and Eva knew the sleeve of his coat was beginning to singe and burn— and suddenly two of her fingers brushed against bare skin and the pressure on her hair was released, accompanied by a pained cry.

Fear lanced through her, bone numbing and familiar. She could smell the burning, could almost hear the angry shouts of La Bête’s men as they chased her down the hall, hit her, beat her, howled in agony as their flesh sizzled at her touch. _I don’t want to die._ The realization was like a slap in the face. _I just don’t, I can’t. This is real, this is real and I’m not dreaming_. _I don’t want to die._ And now she’d pissed off this man— this dangerous mystery of a man— and he would come for her like those men had. Like La Bête had. Only something told her he was far more deadly. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Eva fell off the desk in her haste to get away from Arno, scrambling from the floor off hands and knees, tripping on her own two feet as she barreled towards the door. She had to get away before—

“Eva—!”

She saw him vault the desk in her peripheral vision and the action made her nauseous. What hope did she have of outrunning that? He skidded to a halt in front of her and Eva banked left, dodging an armchair and running blindly into a stack of books nearly as tall as she was. It crumbled like a mountain, the avalanche taking her down with it. She tried to roll, tried to scramble back onto her feet, but her legs wouldn’t hold her weight and she collapsed. The fright was bone-deep, and as her arms and legs trembled Eva dragged herself backwards through the messy pile, breath a tortured mess, hair a thunderous wisp of cloud around her shoulders. “Don’t hurt me,” she begged, and her gut twisted in disgust at how desperate she sounded. “Please, _please_. Please don’t—”

Arno’s boot clacked softly as he drew closer, the sun whispering through the tall windows smothering his shadow heavily over her, suffocating and black. His knees bent, an innocent movement that sent Eva reeling backwards, flinching violently away to curl in on herself— hair shielding her wide-blown eyes as she shied away, bracing. Bracing for the blow, for the outburst, for the…

“No, I’m _not_ — Eva I’m not going to—”

The…

A hand…

_The…_

A hand ghosted her arm from elbow to wrist quickly, hovering for a moment— an unsure shiver a fraction of a second in time— longer at the smooth skin of her knuckles as if afraid to make contact. Eva felt Arno’s presence close at hand, heard his breath exhale shakily, and opened her eyes as warily and slowly as one might as they drifted out of a dream. He was close, the space between them near enough that if she wanted to Eva could stretch out her arm and shove him away. Arno was sitting on his knees, a supporting hand pressed heavily into the dark wood of the floor as he leaned forward and cocked his head, trying to catch a glimpse of her eyes, bangs dancing before his face airily. There was an underlying awkwardness to his frame, the way his hand fell limply, meekly back to the ground, and suddenly catching his eyes Eva saw a tumult of guilt riding the rims of his green irises like the curl of an ocean’s wave. When she raised her head he recoiled backwards as if she’d burned him and it dawned on her sharply, like the crackle of electricity in a heat storm, that perhaps Arno was as just as cautious of her as she was of him. Just as unsure. Just as afraid.

If she closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to drift back to her rescue— the fight between man and beast— the thought seemed on the far-flung side of ludicrous. Arno, scared? Of _her_? The man had torn out another guys’s eye for Christ’s sake! Something pattered to the floor in the silence that hung like a deadweight between them, and Eva recoiled as the small droplet of blood spattered across the wood, eyes flashing upwards towards its source. The side of Arno’s neck swam with an angry blooming tint, cardinal red and ripped raw from the heat of her fingers, the sharpness of her nails. She gasped, tried to swallow the bile that threw itself at the back of her throat. She had done that. _Her_. Arno hovered before her, lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak but wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. A conflict wavered in the depths of his gaze and the tightness of his jaw, but all Eva could see was red. The breath that she’d drawn in refused to exhale, her back as rigid as a pole as she stared wide-eyed at the carnage of skin and blood that was slowly soaking into the navy of Arno’s cravat. He’d gotten a new one. _No surprise, the red one must have been four shades darker after soaking up all of my blood. He tied it so tightly…_ Suddenly it was all too much. _Everything_. Everything that had happened— she’d never felt so alone, so lost— except for _him_. He had found her, saved her. Sat with her when she felt like letting the fire burn her whole. And she’d repaid him by flaying his neck.

Bursting into tears Eva let loose a loud sob, burying her wet cheeks into her knees as she cradled them to her body. Her frame convulsed, tremors rocking her torso as she broke, the dams she’d built up ever since Versailles finally collapsing in on themselves furiously. For a breath that’s all there was, her hitching sobs suspended in a mournful, ringing silence that seemed to fill the room close to implosion. Fingers whispered against her arm gently, tentative in their touch, as if afraid she would break apart at the seams— fly into a frenzy— attack him with her burning hands. But she wasn’t burning, not anymore. Now it only felt like she was melting. His fingers were shaking, and if Eva would have looked at that moment into Arno’s eyes, seen the light of memories in them— the expression scrawled across his face— she would have understood, perhaps, that she was not the only one who felt lost. Felt _alone_. But she didn’t look up, instead reaching a hand to grip Arno’s where it rested on her elbow. His hand was quickly traded for an arm, and then a shoulder, and suddenly Eva found herself clutching Arno for dear life. Her arms encircled his torso, head resting against his shoulder as salty tears swirled pink from where they dripped agains his tattered neck. She needed this, this warm body. This person— this solidity— to cling to while her entire world came smashing down around her like glittering shards of glass.

After a moment the rigidness of his limbs loosened, the shock draining from him, and bringing up his arms Arno pulled Eva closer into a hug, her legs momentarily tangling with his as he sat back and pulled her forwards onto his lap in one fluid motion. The act was comforting and gentle, but lined with a silvery coldness that he barely managed to conceal and that Eva did not notice through her tears. A detachedness. Something that seemed to throw Arno into a windswept reverie, momentarily removing him from himself. He closed his eyes and took a breath, forced the memories down and away… And then he was back. His arms tightened as he pulled Eva closer, a tenderness that perhaps he only kept reserved for his lover— _whoever’s crazy enough to be his,_ Eva’s mind rambled brokenly— emerging as he shushed her and swept the hair that clung to her wet skin from her cheeks.

“I won’t hurt you.” He whispered through the intermittent lull in her gasping sobs. “Ever. Not ever.” His lips danced around the lobe of her ear as he spoke. “You can trust me.”

Eva only whimpered and pressed herself into the slight space left between their bodies, clinging to Arno as if he were her lifeline. And in a way he was. He kept her away from the brink— was the only person holding her back from insanity. Her threadbare breath beat against his neck harshly and Arno flinched.

“So—rry.” Eva choked out between a sob.

“It’s okay.” Arno murmured.

He held her like that, curled up into his chest like a wilted flower, until the moon had risen and the study was bathed in it’s pale glow.

* * *

  “Will you stop pacing?”

Eva glanced at Arno over her shoulder, the salty sheen of dried tear-tracks reflecting like moonbeams down her pale cheeks. Her hands rubbed restlessly at her arms— pimpled with gooseflesh as they were, it wasn’t the cold night breeze wafting in from the window she’d opened that had Eva’s skin practically crawling. No. It was the fact that Arno’s response to her (very seriously) blurted “I’m from the _future_ ” was the banally toned _“stop pacing”_. Stop pacing? Eva spun around fully, hands clutching arms tightly, and stared at Arno with an expression that would have made a therapist’s heart rate skyrocket. _Who’s the crazy one now?_ Oh, right, still her.

Arno shifted in his chair, managing to look equal parts tired and uncomfortable. 

“What?”

If she wasn’t so exhausted from literally bawling her brains out for an hour, Eva would have launched into a field day of backsass… but there was tact that she needed to remember when attempting to explain her current (insanely impossible but at the same time _still_ possible…) situation. Plus, you didn't cry for an hour into a guy that you’ve just met ’s neck while he holds you and expect to look him fully in the eyes for more than four seconds afterwards and articulate much of a witty sentence… Still, the cry had been a good one (best she’d ever had, if she wasn’t mistaken), and despite her rather… fucking horrible… circumstances, Eva couldn’t help but feel a bit better. _‘Sometimes a good cry is the only solution,’_ her mother had always liked to say. Absently Eva wondered if she’d ever hear her mother’s voice again and blinked away a tear before it could fully form. She was done with that, at least for now. She had bigger fish to tackle at present.

“What do you mean _‘what’_?” Eva frowned, resuming her pacing— Arno groaned. “You should be throwing things at me or calling me crazy, and all you have to say is _‘what’_?”

“Don’t forget _‘stop pacing’_.” Arno sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. He seriously looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Eva swiveled to a halt so fast her shoes squeaked on the wood, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll stop pacing. Oh, and ‘lemme just go jump out the window reciting France’s major historical events from the nineteenth and twentieth century while I’m at it, since nothing seems to fucking phase you.” She growled.

Arno seemed like he wanted to laugh, the first ripple of it rolling through him, corners of his mouth tugging upwards for half a second before the weight of what Eva had said hit him like a smack between the eyes. Blinking rapidly, he sat up straighter, a cloth held firmly against the ragged mess of his neck— thankfully it had stopped bleeding, but even the dried blood made Eva feel far too queasy and doubly guilty— slipping as his fingers went lax in a dawning realization.

“You’re… you’re really not joking, are you?”

“ _No_.” She wanted it to sound strong, sound sure. Instead all Eva heard was a helpless girl with a pleading whine. Her gaze lifted, drawing pattern after pattern across Arno’s features as she searched his face for a confirmation of her worst fears— that he would stand up and grab her and toss her straight in the loony bin, if they even had loony bins during the seventeen hundreds. Or, y’know, just kill her..

Instead, all she saw was an awestruck light hit Arno’s gaze and multiply by a million. His body seemed to freeze up for a moment, jaw popping open slightly as he stared at her with a dubious frown, as if he wasn’t totally sure what he’d heard. Some part of Eva wondered if it were all an act to get her off her guard— but no, there was no way. Arno was too shocked, too unbelievably astounded, and judging by the way his eyes kept growing rounder and rounder and _bigger_ — or the way his fingers clutched his chair’s armrests like claws— Eva figured it was safe to assume that he was beyond overwhelmed. Petrifyingly so. But who could blame him, after all?She wasn’t talking about horse shit or poorly fitted powered wigs here. Time-travel— this was the stuff of dreams— _nightmares_. She herself felt almost numbed by her own surprise— he _believed_ her. The question was, why? Her fingers danced around the golden chain at her neck, mindless in their nimble movements as she strained her mind to wrench an answer out of the slipshod pyre that had been the past two weeks. Her necklace clinked dully, and in an instant two sets of eyes moved simultaneously. Eva’s shot upwards, mind breaking free from the chaotic tango of her own thoughts. She watched Arno’s gaze flit up and over, locking onto the flat gold disk that lay unblemished against her chest. Her breath caught in her lungs, the gasp of realization sending her head reeling dizzily.

He knew. Arno believed her because he _knew_. He knew her secret. It made sense.

“How?” She demanded, and this time her voice was as firm and strong as Eva had hoped it would be.

“How…?” Arno murmured, dazed.

Crossing the distance between them in three long strides, Eva pulled back and clapped him across the cheek with the flat palm of her right hand, the weight behind her blow not strong enough to warrant the title of _‘smack’_ , but a forceful strike nonetheless. Arno reeled backwards for a moment, shaking his head like a wet dog before blinking up at her as if confused at how she’d gotten next to him so suddenly.

“What the—”

“How do you know about this?” Eva pressed, holding the medallion dangling in front of him by a single finger draped in gold chain. “Don’t try and give me an excuse,” Eva bit out when Arno opened his mouth. “I saw the look in your eyes. You know. _How?"_

“I—” He broke off with a strangled groan, hands going to his temple. “Hold on,” Arno sounded numb, distant, like he was lost in thought. “What— what time did you say you were from, again?”

Eva shook her head. “Nu-uh, no answering my question with a question—”

Arno’s sigh sounded far more like a moan. “You can’t just tell me you’re from the future and not elaborate—”

“—well maybe if you just told me how you know about my necklace then I’d be able to—”

“—wouldn’t matter because if I told you you wouldn’t believe me—“

Eva nearly lost her balance and tripped over her own feet, grabbing the desk to catch herself. “Did you _seriously_ just say that?”

A ghost of a smirk alighted his lips. “I can say it with less seriousness if you prefer.”

“Aargh, Arno!” Eva smacked her hand flat against the desktop hard enough to cause the whole thing to shudder. “Ow, fuck!” She yelped, flailing her smarting palm. Arno snorted.

“It’s not funny!” Eva snapped. “How come you think I won’t believe whatever it is you have to say when I just told you I’m from the damn _future_?”

Arno stood up abruptly, blue coat tails sliding off the chair’s red cushioning to flap behind him as he walked around the desk, ignoring Eva’s questioning gaze, and pulled a key from somewhere in his coat. The drawer he opened was second to the top on the righthand side, and what he scavenged from its depths surprised Eva (though she had no idea what to expect anyways). A journal, small, battered and bruised looking with a muddy brown cover— her mother would have immediately dubbed the pile of leather and pages _‘well loved’_ — was yanked out of the darkness and flipped open quickly, Arno skimming the thick pages urgently until he grunted in recognition, flipped the book around, and slid it across the desk towards her.

“You see that?” He asked, striding over to stand beside her. Eva’s fingers were a breath of wind as they glided over the drawing, eyes drinking in the sword from hilt to its sharpened tip. It was a good sketch, realistically depicted. The artist in Eva awoke, intrigued. She would never have pinned this man for having a hand in art.

“You drew this?” She asked, looking over her shoulder at him. Arno eyed her for a moment before his gaze returned to the journal. Even in the dark Eva could see the sheet of white his skin had colored. She feel the edge in his movements, the anxiousness— Arno radiated it as strongly as a sunbeam, and Eva suspected that he knew this, and that he either did not want to conceal it from her, or could not.

“Yes,” his fingers outlined the golden hue that had been painted around the strange looking sword, the drawing taking up the entire page, surrounded by almost illegible scrabbling. A glimpse at the other page had Eva glancing over handwriting so beautiful and curling that it would have made any teen girl jealous— this sword, this drawing… it upset him somehow. Deeply so.

“What is it?” Eva breathed.

There was a short pause, as if Arno was gathering himself. “A Piece of Eden.”

“A… a piece of— What is that, some kind of cereal brand? Like a Lucky Charm?”

Arno side-eyed her impassively.

Eva threw her hands up. “Okay, jeez, just a joke. Not that you’d get it— y’know what just continue.”

Arno took a step back. “It’s a very old artifact, capable of immense power… It was the first one I ever came across.” It was back again, the tremor, the breach in the stoic, guarded bulwark Arno seemed to throw up whenever he began to grow uncomfortable, troubled. But there was a crack in his wall, and Eva saw it. What was he restraining so vehemently, she wondered.

Eva broke the mounting silence with the tinkle of her medallion’s chain as she lifted it high. “Power— power like this? If what you’re saying is true then I’m thinking this must be the reason for me being able to turn into a mini-stove…” Her heart leapt suddenly as a wild thought occurred. “Does that sword have as much as my necklace or more? Can it— can it somehow send me home?! We should try—”

“It’s different,” Arno cut in, and Eva visibly deflated. He frowned, looking down at his hands splayed wide upon the desk. “It’s different in _what_ it can do… but the principle is the same. The power… the impossibility of it…” Arno shook his head, closing the journal with a dull thump before turning to Eva. “That’s why I believe you. You’re necklace and the sword… the power they hold… they’re two of a kind, in a sense.”

“ _Great_.” Eva’d hands sat on her hips squarely. She snorted, irked. “A billion plus families on this planet and mine has an heirloom that is supposedly some weird Slice of Eden—”

“— _Piece_ —”

“Oh whatever, what even are they? Who made them?” Eva caught Arno’s eye. “Is there a way to find whoever did— maybe _they_ can send me back?”

“I don’t think so…” Arno muttered and Eva glared.

“Why not?”  Arno let out a long breath though his nose as he crossed behind her, grabbing the back of a chair and spinning it around. “Have you ever heard of Those That Came Before?”

Eva wrinkled her nose. “Where did they come from?”

The chair plunked down in front of her, Arno leaning on its back with an unreadable expression on his lips— in his eyes. “I think it’s your turn to sit down, Eva.”

 _I think it’s been my turn for a while now._ She slid into the chair without question, watching as the man before her paced up to the window, gazed out of it for a moment, then retraced his steps. She smirked to herself. _Ha! Who’s pacing now?_

When he didn’t speak for more than a minute, her curiosity got the better of her. “Are you gonna talk to me or just leave me hangin’ Frenchie?”

Arno caught her gaze and that look was in his eyes still, scrawled indecipherably.

“Patience. I’m going to tell you the history of the world. The real history.”  

* * *

It took Arno ten minutes to finally coax Eva from the study, succeeding only when he promised her as much food as she could possibly desire.

“No one will be awake at this hour,” he insisted, taking her hand from where it clung to the doorframe for dear life. Eva just shook her head, allowing herself to be tugged out of the room. Truth be told, she was still partially stunned over the revelation of Those Who Came Before— amazing how she’d freakin’ _time traveled_ and still couldn’t wrap her mind around the ancient race of… _human-gods_ or whatever the everloving fuck they were. She’d half-stopped listening to Arno halfway through his sermon on them, panic that was becoming all too familiar beginning to cinch her throat shut. If this was possible— if this was _all_ possible, who knew what else was? Aliens, ghosts, the Jersey Devil? The Illuminati? _I think the solution to all my problems is twelve straight shots lined up back to back…_ Sparing a glance at Arno as he led her down the darkened corridor, Eva decided that perhaps the both of them could use a dozen shots or so. Woot, party in the French Revolution. _Holy shit, never thought I’d get the chance to—_

“So tell me about this _Brotherhood_ of yours,” Eva called up to Arno as they entered a large room with a grand, polished staircase sprawling gracefully downwards. She pulled speedily up next to him as they descended not because she was keen on his company— after her little breakdown episode Eva just wanted to run and bury her face in ice water… forever— but rather to escape the shadows that whispered and crawled malevolently along the darkened walls. Outside there was the muffled sounds of horse and man, but here in this room it was as quiet as the grave. Eva felt almost like she was ten again, scooting after Riley and Everett at the annual Lost Cove haunted house they always (for some reason) attended. _I wonder what they’re doing right now…_ Eva’s heart soured. A part of her saw them together, surfboards thrown into the sand carelessly as they stared vacantly out into the surf, drinking in the news of her disappearance. But then there was another thought— an ever persistent nudge— that what she’d imagined was impossible. Those two idiots weren’t even alive yet. All at once Eva felt like the floor had been yanked out from under her feet, and it was only the sound of Arno’s voice that kept her from tumbling down the stairs in a quivering mass of jellified revelations.

“I can tell you that they are an ancient Order—”

“—Oh, again with the ancient shit—” Eva muttered to herself.

“— which strives to ensure the survival of freedom for all mankind, but more than that I don’t believe I am at liberty to say. At least at present.”

Eva let the shadows trail long wisps of black across her smooth skin as she followed Arno into the darkness of doorways and winding corridors, head swiveling over her shoulder every few seconds in a repetitive merry-go-round of paranoia.

“So… it’s like a cult then?”

“Um,” Arno glanced back at her, snorting loudly. She flinched badly at the noise, embarrassed and glad that it was nearly impossible to see. “Not exactly, _no_.”

“Okay… So more like a frat? Holy shit is this your frat house? Do you guys throw parties?”

She could sense the look he was throwing her way even through the imperceptible inkiness of the cramped hall they had just entered. “Um, _okay_ , no parties…”  
“Aside from the fact that I haven’t the faintest idea was a … _‘frat’_ … is, I like the sound of a party. I’ll have to bring it up to the Council later.”

Eva couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not, but the slight tang of sarcasm in his voice had her leaning more towards not. Still, the sound of a _‘council’_ didn’t exactly have her jumping for joy. If anything, this just presented her with another mounting issue— like she needed a group of entitled oldies to dub her a witch or insane and throw her in another prison cell. The thought raked claws as cold and forlorn as a moonless night up the backs of her legs; her spine.

“How do you know they’ll except my story?” I mean— _ah!_ ” Eva grunted and would have fallen if an invisible arm wouldn’t have shot out and steadied her in the darkness.

“Steps,” Arno muttered, voice pinched bashfully. “Watch— watch the steps… there are fourteen.”

He released her arm and Eva immediately plastered herself against the cold stone wall, inching slowly down another step. _Stairs?_ They were going down stairs? _To where?_ The uneasiness in her chest tightened its knot. “Arno, I-I’m not gonna lie here dude. If they— this Council— condemns me to the nut house I’m _actually_ gonna loose my mind and probably burn some people on accident. Or not.”

It was getting colder, the chill rising past her ankles to wrap around the rawness of her wrists and palms. A whisper of air ghosted the scar on her side like a trailing finger. Why were they going _down_? “Arno?” Eva called nervously, and the tremble in her voice rebounded faintly off the close-knit walls. “ _Arno?_ ” She was becoming scared quickly, and the panicked tint that painted her voice a higher pitch did nothing to soothe her nerves.

“I’m here,” he said, and Eva froze at how close his voice was. A hand touched her shoulder softly, guiding her down one step, then another, but all Eva could think of was where they were leading her to.

“They’ll believe you,” Arno’s voice murmured softly through the gloom, and Eva wondered for a moment if he’d read her thoughts. After all, nothing seemed impossible to her anymore.

“ _Why?_ I mean, we’re talking about time travel here— _time travel._ Are you kidding me?” Eva reached out, hand finding the strong purchase of his bicep to steady herself as her feet stumbled down another slippery step. “Anyone who even considers believing that is insane.”

“Thanks.” Arno grunted. When Eva didn’t reply he sighed. "They'll believe you,” He repeated.

“I don’t see how.”

“…Because I do.”

Another step, then another. His hand never left her arm as he gently guided her down, down— Eva suspected that it was more for her comfort than the actual lack of lighting, and for that she was grateful.

“What if that’s not enough.”

They’d reached the bottom step, the floor below swathed in a cauldron of ice cold air than licked up her legs in waving tendrils.

“That’s why you’re going to tell them about your bag.” Arno reminded her, voice low and hushed in the quiet space between them.

Her backpack. Eva had remembered it when she’d realized she couldn’t find her phone— another item that had Arno arching a brow in her direction. It was lost somewhere in that hovel of a makeshift prison that sat under La Bête’s absurdly ostentatious lair. Then it had really hit, the realization that there was a loophole, a light at the end of this ridiculously long tunnel: her phone was _proof_. Proof that she wasn’t crazy. Proof that she was where she said she was from— the future. Her phone could hold the key to her salvation, her survival. But only if it’s battery didn’t die. Eva had cursed violently at that (startling Arno so badly he actually tripped, though she wasn’t sure if that was because of her choice of words or the anger and pitch of her tone…). Ignoring Arno’s grumblings about needing to lie down she had launched into the revelation of her discovery, and aside from having to take another ten minutes to describe what a cellphone actually was, Eva was fairly certain that she’d managed to convey the severity of her sudden situation. She needed that phone. And time was short if not already run out— it had been two weeks after all. Not to mention the actual task of retrieving her bag, if such a thing was even possible… Which brought them back to where they stood, close together in the cramped dankness of what appeared to be an entrance to a cellar.

There was a coughing squeal as somewhere close at hand Arno opened a door and suddenly a corridor was revealed, long and snaking, bathed in the off-putting light of torches that flickered long flames against dark stone walls. The coldness that sailed out through the doorway and up the steps did not bite into her as it might once have— Eva had steadily begun to realize that creeping chills could not get past the warmth that had taken up its dwelling in the core of her being. She felt them yes, the chills. But only in passing.

Arno took a confident step over the threshold of the door and turned back after two more. Eva hadn’t budged. In the low hue of light cast by the torches nestled in their shadowy brackets she stood in the outer rim of darkness, back pressed firmly to the wall.

“You coming?”

Eva eyed the corridor behind Arno, gaze skipping from torch to torch until they all but petered out, her stomach twisting in a knot at the way the darkness seemed to swallow it up the farther she peered.

“Uhh…”

Something in her gut tugged, a nagging suspicion that this was not a good idea _at all._ She needed to turn around and walk back up the stairs, away from the creepy basement hallway and its shady aura. Nothing good ever happened in places like that in horror movies anyways. The signs were all there, and as she continued to stare, hesitating on the brink of shadow and light, Eva suddenly began to wonder just how truthful Arno’s story was. Sure it was absolutely ridiculous sounding, but so was hers… Even if what he’d said about that ancient race, those Pieces of Eden— even if it was all true— what if he was luring her down here, like a fish caught on a reel, to be captured. Her necklace snatched away for its power and her throat cut. What _if?_

“Eva?”

“I-I don’t really…” Eva began and jumped, back digging roughly into the wall, when Arno suddenly came hastily back through the door again, only pulling it halfway shut in his sudden understanding.

“What are you doing?”

“Look, I understand that you don’t trust me, not fully. Not after—”

“—La Bête.” Eva whispered so faintly she was surprised Arno heard her at all.

“But I meant what I said before.” Arno took another step forward and in the dim mixture of dusky light Eva saw the look in his eyes, the way the wall dropped down from their perch there— not fully, but enough. He kept his distance, as if afraid coming any closer would frighten her, sending her flying back up the steps and into the night. “I won’t hurt you.” And there was something in his voice that had Eva believing him even as the torch guttered in the corridor beyond the door. A ghost-breeze perhaps.

“I’m not going to make you go down there.” Arno glanced behind him briefly, a phantom noise momentarily catching his attention. When he returned his gaze to her, Eva was taken aback by the sincerity that rode the line of his lips, the curve of his jaw. His eyes bore into her own searchingly. Arno’s features were open and honest— _relax,_ they said _. You’re safe._ “Not if you don’t want to.”

Eva hesitated, nibbling on her bottom lip as she let her gaze float, drifting anywhere but Arno’s. He could just be saying all of this as a bluff. It was a possibility, she wouldn’t deny it. But hadn’t she been the one to insist they rescue her backpack? Hadn’t Arno only been taking her to get the help she’d requested? He had been honest with her up to this point, after all. _And he didn’t even yell at me when I decked him with that book before…_

She swallowed noisily and nodded once. “Okay,” she nodded again. “Okay, I- I- (did she trust him though?)… Let’s go.”

Arno only nodded, sparing her a long look before turning and pushing open the door again. It groaned heavily on its hinges; Eva had to forcibly stop herself from shrinking back a step. _You’ve got this, girly._ She pushed herself off the wall with clammy fingers, her steps wracked with nerves, breathing coming like a hurricane through her nose and out her mouth as she finally entered the looming archway. The step through was quick and painless, though her heart nearly leapt into her throat. All the while Arno watched her, eyes guarded in their thoughts. He waited until Eva had walked a ways into the corridor before speaking up.

“I’m going to close the door now. Alright?”

Eva colored immediately, hiding the red blush that striped its way up her throat and across her cheeks by keeping her back to Arno. The fact that he’d felt the need to tell her he was shutting a door… Did she really come off so petrified? _I’m so pathetic._ The door clicked solidly shut behind her a second later and Eva blew out a breath she’d been holding for at least half a minute. She turned, meaning to thank Arno for all his caution, when a shape flitted malevolently past the corner of her vision and she froze.

Something— someone— grabbed her arm, the hand twisting against the bone of her shoulder as it’s owner bore down on her. Whoever it was, they were an absolute hulk of a human being— Eva managed only a brief glimpse of a man towering above her before she was flinching away, tucking her opposite shoulder and spinning to barrel as fast as she could in the other direction. The hand tightened, long fingers splayed across her shirt and skin, yanking her back into a hard chest. Eva screamed, the sound dreadful in it’s horror, just as the man yelped _“stop!”_ in surprise— only men didn’t yelp, not like that. He sounded more like a boy at the edge of maturity. Another arm came around, wrapping itself around her body and pulling her back, halting her flight mid-step. Eva was practically hyperventilating, breath coming to fast and going too quickly for her to do much more than gasp feebly and claw at her captor’s restraining hands. It had all happened so quickly— in a matter of seconds— leaving her lost in the completeness of her dazed fright. Distantly Eva could hear shouting, dimly registering Arno’s voice in her panic.

“ _Alex!_ ” He thundered, and as his growled command whip-cracked through the stunned air Eva felt the familiar fire shoot to her fingertips, lancing from her core to leech their devastating heat into the unfortunate skin of whomever held her. Her breath was singing through her, a rapid quick-fire of out, in out _in_. Her chest ached, vision dimming. Somewhere behind her Eva distantly heard Alex give a bellowing shout of pain, shoving her away from him as he doubled over, clutching at his singed hands. She hit the ground hard, too caught up in the fact that she— _I can’t breath can’t breathe can’t_ can’t— to catch herself. She rolled, coming to rest in a heap that allowed her to watch as a fuzzy shape that could only be Arno reached down and yanked Alex to his feet by his throat.

“You better give me a bloody good fucking reason not to run my blade through your throat.” Arno hissed, sounding to Eva like someone had shouted the words across a canyon at her. The murder in his tone was enough to freeze her in her bones.

“I’m sorry—” Alex gasped, voice breaking from fright and pain. The hand on his throat tightened.

“Oh, yes that makes _everything better._ " Arno spit through gritted teeth.

“I thought she was still _missing_ —" Alex stammered desperately. “I didn’t see you— I—I swear I wasn’t going to hurt—”

Arno growled dangerously, throwing the boy several feet where he crashed into the door they’d just come through. Eva’s heart thundered in her chest, her breath barely gracing her lungs for a second before it was rushing out again. She writhed, tingling fingers clawing weakly at her chest. She couldn’t _breathe_. And still the horror clung to her like a heavy cloak, weighing her down. Smothering her. It was the prison all over again, all over _allover_ —

“—out of my sight. Don’t think for a _second_ that the Council won’t here about this!” Arno was shouting— or perhaps he wasn’t, perhaps he was speaking in that deadly calm that gave the chills that slithered up Eva’s spine a run for their money. She couldn’t tell, she couldn’t tell anything anymore, and already her vision was starting to slip.

“Arno, the— the girl!” Alex was yelling. “She’s—!”

“Get out!” Arno roared. The door slammed shut a second later, the only sound amidst the settling dust the faint wheeze of Eva’s breath. The corridor was dark, shapes a fuzzy mess. Eva didn’t hear Arno as he scrambled to her side, could barely register his touch as he pulled her against him. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her ragged breath ghosting his ear. She could hear him, far, far away. Like in those movies when someone is just going under for surgery, listening to the doctor as his voices fades in and out and in…

“It’s….”

Eva tried to gasp in a mouthful of air, choked, coughed, writhed. Arno’s arms tightened around her. He was still talking.

“It’s… alright.” He sounded like he was a million miles away. “…alright…”

Arno pulled her closer in his arms, tightening his hold. “Shh, Eva it’s alright, it’s alright. I’m here. Everything’s going to be okay.”

The blood pounding in her ears threatened to drown his words out. She fought against it, straining to hear his voice.

“Breath,” Arno commanded gently. “Calm down and breath for me. It’s alright, he wasn’t going to hurt you, he wasn’t going to hurt you. _Breath_.”

His voice sent a shiver through her and she gasped, a sliver more air managing to slip into her lungs. The panic clenched at her heart.  
“That’s it,” Arno coaxed. “Again. Again Eva.”

And she tried, she really did, but whatever constricted her lungs refused to relinquish its hold. Her fingers scraped useless along the leg of Arno’s pants as she tried to heave in a breath, the fear balanced on a precipice, threatening to take hold as soon as her throat sealed tight again.

“It’s alright,” Arno repeated. “You’re alright— breath with me. _Shh,_ you’re alright.”

She felt the expansion of his chest below her, the steady drag of air filling his lungs, and tried to draw in a breath of her own. Air scraped frayed coils across her windpipe, threatening to overwhelm her, but somehow the muscles of her throat gave and she gulped the meager lungful down.

“And out,” Arno said quietly, and like a bird spreading its wings wide they exhaled together. Eva coughed, the motion causing her to accidentally suck in a deep breath that slipped back out of her before the air could catch in her lunges. She coughed again, eyes roving wildly only to latch themselves to the movement of Arno’s mouth. She couldn’t hear him no matter how hard she strained— only the sound of her rapid breathing.

“You’re alright,” suddenly his voice was back, broken up by the motor of her deep, rushing gasps. “Look at me. You’re alright.” Her eyes found his by mistake— still lost on their roaming, frightened drift— and when her gaze locked with his Eva found she could not look away. Not unless she wanted to choke— to suffocate. She needed them, the pull behind their dark green. Needed it as much as she needed oxygen.

When Arno took a breath, her body mimicked him, lungs expanding painfully, crammed to bursting with air. They exhaled together, inhaled together, then exhaled again, and all the while Arno spoke to her, repeating his words over and over until they became a steady lull. Eva’s head drooped, wilting into the crook of Arno’s neck as her entire body sagged in exhaustion. Her lungs ached, her _throat_ — the tightness in her chest had eased some, and with each slow breath Arno took she copied. Finally they both fell silent, Eva’s breathing nothing more than a wheezy, soft hum. It took her a few minutes to register anything more than the intermingled feelings of sleepy fatigue and sapping horror that had weighted her bones like lead, but eventually Eva came to realize her current position, resting limply against Arno. They sat against the cold stone wall, flames from the bracketed torch above them casting a soft, flickering glow across their skin. Weakly Eva closed her eyes. _Betrayal_. The word sneered lashed out at her in her mind’s eye. _I told you so,_ her gut snapped at her. _I told you it was a trap._ Her thoughts drifted, paper boats set loose on a windswept lake. It felt like she’d been lying against Arno forever— down in the dim corridor it seemed like time had stopped.

“Liar.”

The words did nothing to break the sedated spell that had settled over them. Her eyes were still closed.

“You’re a liar.” For three words there was a world of emotion behind them. An unspoken accusation. She’d trusted him. Against everything that had screamed ‘no’ in her body and soul. She’d trusted him.

“I’m sorry,” Arno whispered, and Eva’s eyes opened blearily. If she could have laughed she would have, instead managing only a rough bark of a chuckle. A breathy hint of the aroma that had clung to her pillows earlier the previous day sang past her nose and Eva breathed deep, relishing the scent.

“ _Sorry_ …” She scoffed, the words murmured. Eva turned her head so that her brow brushed against the stubble of Arno’s jawline.

“That you are here. That this has happened to you. I can’t imagine…” His words were pure in their sincerity. Eva closed her eyes and let her sight wander in the blackness. She knew it wasn’t his fault, wasn’t Arno’s intention for that boy— _Alex_ — to grab her. Even in her panic it was evident that it had been an accident. A misunderstanding. All of this was, after all. A chuckle bubbled to her lips, but when she opened her mouth all Eva could do was cough, the force of it wracking her frame. Arno’s arm’s remained steadfast around her, but Eva would have given anything to have enough energy to sit up, to push them away and be rid of all this. She didn’t want Arno, didn’t want any of this mess. She wanted… _I want to go_ home. The thought was the absolute optimal of misery. _I want to go home._

She sighed resignedly, motioning for Arno to help her sit up. He did so gently.Standing was a task in itself, requiring Arno to almost fully support her as he lifted her to her feet, much to Eva’s displeasure. She’d attempted to use the wall as leverage without success, suddenly averse to any help from the man beside her. She didn’t want it, didn’t want another’s compassion— his pity. Not now, not anymore. The role of helplessness that rode her shoulders like a mantel was quickly beginning to wear thin on her spirit.

Her first step had her nearly collapsing under the buckling of her right knee, but Eva’s hand shot out all the same when Arno darted forward to catch her. “No,” she grunted, leaning against the wall for support. “Don’t touch me. Please.” The amount of strangers that had slid their hands across her dirty skin over the past two weeks… Eva shuddered. She wanted a bath. Four of them, in leisurely succession.

Eva glanced at Arno out of the corner of her eye. “Take me to your Council.” She said, and before Arno could so much as speak she’d already begun to shuffle down the long, gloomy corridor, uncaring of where it led. Behind her, Arno’s footsteps trailed.


	9. Neuf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the breath of a second she realised her mistake, eyes widening in horror. “No— WAIT!”
> 
> The strangulated cry of pain that ripped through the air was enough to have Eva scrambling to her feet in a frenzy, fright and panic and dread marrying into a potent drug that numbed her veins. As quickly as the scream had begun it died, and without hesitation Eva wrenched the door open. She hadn’t known who she’d been expecting to see on the other side, but the face that greeted her nearly had her slamming the door in his face and locking it tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pokes head in*
> 
> Um, hi, I'm back. I know it's been a while, and I know this story seems like its dead... but it's not. I just have been studying abroad and have had literally no time whatsoever. Like, literally. I've been to a different country every weekend and I'm probably most likely going to pass out from exhaustion in the near future. 
> 
> Anyways, I just wanted to say thank you to the wonderful people who took the time to message me an encourage me to keep moving forward with this fic. The main reason I have been struggling to continue this is that it's incredibly time consuming, so to receive such kind messages put me on cloud 9. You have no idea how much your words mean to me.  
> Okay, on with the show.
> 
> \- Chapter Music:  
>  _* Is It Poison, Nanny? - Hans Zimmer_  
>  _* What is This Place? - John Paesano_  
>  _* House of Black and White - Ramin Djawadi_  
>  _* Call Me Newt - Ramin Djawadi_  
>  \- Morg
> 
> * * *

 

Rule #1:

Trust No One.

_\- Unknown._

 

The eyes which glared at her from the darkness seemed to reflect her confusion, a single, unspoken question projected in the way each accusatory gaze trailed after her down the corridor. Eva swallowed, longing to shuffle closer to Arno as they mounted a rigid set of spiralling steps, elegant in their carved design. But one glance in his direction brought back the rage that had been simmering since her surprise-assault. The _mistrust_. He’d said that she was safe; _promised_. Promised that no harm would come to her— and just look what had happened. In truth, her nerves were fried, her mind exhausted. She was teetering, Eva knew, on some black brink. A dangerous precipice. A kind of alienated madness. There was only so much a person could sanely handle, after all. And her situation was anything but sane. So no, she did not want Arno’s protection, did not need to use him as a crutch. She trusted no one— a decision that should have been realized from the start— and the fact that she was still badly scared from the incident which had just transpired did little to mask the look of animosity that seared in her gaze as, for the breath of a second, it crossed with Arno’s. When he did not look away, Eva allowed her eyes to drop, gritting her teeth as she forced down the shiver that rushed through her. The genuine sorrow which wallowed in the darks of Arno’s gaze stained the backs of her eyelids. She could not escape his pity. 

Even as they cleared the final step of the staircase, the distinct murmuring which trailed after refused to refrain, causing the hairs on the back of Eva’s neck to bristle uneasily. 

“ _Who is she?_ ” The hushed question rebounded against the amphitheatre’s cavernous roof, projecting back eerily. “Why is she here?”

“Do you think she’s a—?”

“—he wouldn’t dare to bring another.”  
“Oh yes he would.”

“Her clothes…”

“—looks like a whore.”

She didn’t miss the lethal blackness of Arno’s scowl as he turned to sweep his dark gaze across the cluster of Assassin’s gathered below. The spitfire which would have normally flared in defence of her pride sputtered feebly, and turning mutely Eva cast an unsure look at the doorway before her, taking a tentative step through its threshold. Then another. And another. One by one, foot by foot she found herself slowly edging down the seemingly endless corridor. Not that her sluggishness was in any way a bad thing. The carnivorous vacuum of each pair of eyes latched to her from the end the room was enough to have Eva spinning and running pell-mell in what would have been the hastiest retreat of her young life… Fortunately— or _unfortunately_ — before she could execute her abrupt plan Arno had pulled up beside her, matching her footfalls with his stride for stride. Eva frowned, shoulders slumping uncomfortably as they drew nearer to the four Assassins, refusing to acknowledge the way Arno glanced in her direction every so often. He could wonder what he would, there was no way in hell she was going to let him know how absolutely _terrified_ she was. 

Eva didn’t quite know where to look. Surely not at Arno, who seemed desperate to catch her attention— _probably to make sure I’m not about to have another panic attack,_ she thought miserably. Returning the hard stares— regardless of the inquisitiveness of their nature— of the four Assassins they approached was likewise out of the question. She could barely stomach looking at their boots, moreover their stern countenances. If these people were Arno’s bosses… Eva shuddered, so hard that Arno cast her a frown which she refused to acknowledge— his perturbed state over her was aggravating in its subtle solidity— just thinking what _they_ could do to her. The notion was an awful one, shrouded in endlessly _gory_ possibilities which sent Eva spiralling in a reflective panic. What, just what, had she gotten herself into? _God, can this get any freaking worse?_

Naturally, it was because she asked that it did .

The shocked gasp which whistled through her throat did little to halt her fall as her foot snagged itself against the richness of the crimson carpet spanning the corridor. Flailing for a single, desperate moment, Eva threw her hands up before her face as she pitched forward at an alarming rate. Ankle twinging painfully as her foot twisted out from under her, she pummelled rapidly to the stone floor. At the last moment a hand shot out, gloved fingers snagging her arm and halting her descent a moment before Eva’s face would have smacked the cold, unforgiving stone. She gasped, blinking rapidly, before Arno hoisted her to her feet with a grunt, relinquishing his hold as quickly as he’d claimed it. There wasn’t nearly enough hair on her scalp to truly mask the fire-engine red of her glowing cheeks. Eva ducked her head, wrapping her arms tightly around herself and peeking out sideways from between strands of blond hair. 

“Thanks,” she whispered grudgingly. 

Arno nodded. His poker face was good, Eva wanted to tell him, but the concern he so effortlessly masked spoke betraying volumes in the pitch of his eyes. He looked away, breaking their gaze, and Eva was suddenly reminded that they were not alone by the slow sound of clapping.

“Spectacular.” Someone called dryly, and the apathetic humour which tinged his voice send Eva unconsciously edging a step behind Arno.

The strained tension which permeated the room was suddenly broken, curiously enough, when the woman sitting directly beside the snickering Assassin lashed out, whacking him hard across the arm with whatever scroll she’d previously been skimming over.  

Arno snorted at the look of pure disbelief that had ignited upon the man’s face. 

“How _dare_ you—”

“Quemar, must you always instigate unwanted strife? Look how vexed the poor thing is!” The woman— who, Eva noted immediately upon getting the courage to peer closer, had the kindest eyes, next to her mother’s of course, that she’d ever seen— waved the scroll in their general direction nonchalantly, her soft gaze whirling to cast a disapproving glare on Quemar, who leaned forward, face severely drawn and eyes slitted like a snakes.

“I suggest, Vicar, that before you—”

“Oh calm down, the both of you.” Another woman rose, both shorter and sterner in countenance than Vicar, though her aura was twice as deadly. “Children, you are. It’s a wonder we can accomplish anything, what with your squabbling day in and day out.” Leaning forward, the Assassin fixed Arno with an expectant look that slowly drifted— much to her dismay— to Eva. Scanning her up and down once, twice, the woman sighed, letting her head droop for a moment before sitting back heavily in her seat. 

“Well come closer,” she gestured wearily, “we aren’t going to bite.”

“Quemar might,” Arno muttered under his breath, and before she could stop herself Eva snickered. 

Standing before the four Assassins, Eva wasn’t sure whether she wanted to melt into a puddle or disintegrate under their fierce scrutiny. _Whichever would be faster, I suppose._ She stood ramrod straight, her body so tense it was beginning to quake. Anxiety gripped her throat, squeezing each breath as it struggled to claw it’s way up and down the rawness of her windpipe. _I think my heart is trying to kill me._ Shifting uncomfortably, Eva tried to ignore the way it banged like a caged beast around her chest. She looked at these people and saw a deadliness; a death that could be delivered in one quick, calculated blow. _It’s not like La Bète,_ she chanted desperately. _They’re not like La Bète, they’re not… I hope…_ Beside her, Arno was casting her another sideways glance. Eva returned it with a furrowed brow and a glower that would have melted a bucket of ice faster than her newfound powers could ever have hoped to. 

A throat clearing pointedly had both Eva and Arno’s attention snapping forward, and together Assassin and time traveler watched as it’s source clasped her hands and fixed them with a calculating stare. 

“What is your name, girl?”

Eva froze for a moment, rigid in her sudden fright, before forcing herself to speak. “Evangeline— Uh— E-Eva. It’s Eva.” _God, this is just like my last job interview…_ As if to solidify the thought, she began to twiddle her thumbs nervously where her hands were clasped before her. 

“Well, Eva, welcome. I’m sure Arno has already informed you of our Order’s purpose.”

Unsure whether it was a statement or a question, Eva resigned herself to nodding her head anyway, the motion entirely too rapid to be considered anything but the epitome of panic. 

“We select four make up the Council.” Raising her hands, the woman motioned to either side of her. “To my left you have Masters Vicar and Quemar. To my right, Master Guillaume. You may address me as Master Trenet.”

Eva was so busy trying to ignore the curious scrutiny that Master Guillaume had cast upon her that she barley caught what was being said to her, responding hastily into the awkward silence with a meek, “yes madame.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Master Vicar cast her a soft smile, and almost instantaneously something in her fear gave way. If anything, at least _one_ of them appeared nice… _sort of…_

Guillaume cleared his throat. “We are under the impression that you may have more information concerning La Bète?”

Eva wilted at the name, shoulders caving as a terrified breath was punched from her gut. The fire began to build in her core. She had no idea what the were asking— had no idea how to answer. Whatever La Bète had been screaming at her all those days ago, Eva hadn’t understood in the slightest. Even if she _could_ recall it all, the memory itself was too awful, too soon…

“Actually,” Arno interrupted, and despite her newfound mistrust in him Eva couldn’t help but be grateful for his breach in the conversation. “I believe you might want to hear her story. All of it. From the beginning.”

Quemar scoffed, folding his arms contemptuously, executing an eye roll that would give any rebellious teenaged girl a real run for her money.  “We’ve already wasted enough time as it is. If you’d just killed the bloody beast when like we’d tasked you too,” he growled, pointing an accusing finger at Arno, “none of this would be of any concern.”

Arno didn’t miss a beat. “I can assure you, monsieur, that unlike your moaning _this_ ,” Eva winced when he nodded in her direction, “is worth listening to.”

Quemar sputtered, indignation a swelling inferno in his dark eyes, his lower jaw working up and down as his lips quivered in soundless rage. Beside him, Master Vicar threw back her head and laughed. Trenet coughed loudly. Eva shifted uneasily from one foot to the next, watching as Master Guillaume sighed and buried his head in his hands. Even she knew that, clearly, Arno had just crossed a line of sorts. He seemed unaffected, glaring vehemently in Quemar’s direction, the challenge clear in his gaze. 

Master Trenet coughed again, burying her mouth behind her hand in a vain attempt to mask her own chuckles.. Eva felt her own lips quirk up into the ghost of a smirk. Collecting herself masterfully, the Assassin nodded slowly. 

“Very well. Mademoiselle Eva, if you could please enlighten us on your… _adventures_.”

Beside her Arno sidestepped away, leaving Eva the sole spotlight for the Council’s undying attention. Suddenly very shy, she forced herself to shuffle forward after a moment, wrapping her arms around herself in a comfortless embrace. What if they didn’t believe her? _Of course they won’t, who would ever believe something so… insane?_

 _Insane_ , that was the magic word, wasn’t it? They were going to think her insane, laugh at her, mock her. Throw her in a cell, leave her there to rot. And then she’d be stuck back at square one all over again. The very thought had Eva’s eyes blown wide, her body bowing into itself as the fright took hold. The worst part was, she couldn’t blame them. After all, if some stranger came to her spouting tales of time travel, how would _she_ react?

A rustle of blue to her right had Eva glancing over, catching the reassurance in the deep green of Arno’s gaze from where he leaned against the wall. 

Arno won’t let that happen, he’d said she was safe here. He’d _promised_. Eva squeezed her eyes shut tight, head bowed as she fought against the mental image of the attack in the corridor, the feelings of overwhelming panic and terror, of the betrayed hurt that followed. Could she trust him? Could she trust anyone here?

Eva didn’t know, the answer evaded her even as she strained to reach out for it. All she was left with for company was the unknown, and that was more frightening in itself than anything she could conjure up herself. 

“Mademoiselle?” Master Guillaume was calling softly, and snapping from her private hysteria Eva shook her head slowly. 

“Sorry… _I_ … It started about two weeks ago… kind of… at Versailles.”

“Kind of?” Vicar pipped up.

“I’ll explain in a moment. You- You’ll understand.”

What did she have to lose? After all, she’d already lost so much. 

Unfortunately, the actual event of retelling the last two hellish weeks of her life sparred no expense on her nerves, and several times Eva had to stop altogether, Eva felt like she was going to vomit when she finally finished, blushing redder than a tomato, blinking up timidly from Arno to the Council. 

It was Quemar that broke the silence.

“Dorian, why is it that _every time_ you bring someone in here they’re always bedlamite?” 

Eva’s brows rocketed skyward. _“Whoa, big word.”_ She mouthed, ignoring the insult in favour of watching as Arno’s face paled considerably… And then darkened again, an angry red which rouged his cheekbones and marred his pallor. Eva swallowed nervously, gaze switching rapidly from the murder tinted in the Assassin’s stony glare to Quemar and back _. Oh…_ man _he looks pissed._ Of all the things in the world Eva was thankful for— cinnamon hot chocolate, Mickey Mouse pancakes and a storm to swell the ocean’s waves, to name a few— not being on the receiving end of such a glower was undoubtedly at the top of the list. _If looks could kill that old dude would be ripped inside out and sliced in two by now… Christ._ He was scaring her, Arno. Lips pulled down in malevolent fury Far more than before… _eye-rippage included_. _But I wonder what made him react like that…? What’s Quemar know that I don’t?_

Lips pulled down vehemently, the black look which had slowly seeped its way past Arno’s defences has reached the very core of his pupils. The emotion there was overwhelming in its vibrancy, an astonishing swirl of life ensnared behind emerald green eyes long masked to the world. Eva had never seen anything truly like it. Eyes are the windows of the soul, her mother had always mused. So what was she staring into? The shields were down, whether Arno noticed or not. What pain had his past dealt him to garner such a reaction?

When Arno finally spoke, the raggedness of his voice had Eva’s head snapping in his direction. His tone, so low and heavy with anger, carried an underlying broken quality who’s echo she could not seem to shake. 

“Don’t you speak of _her_ in that way,” He hissed, jabbing a finger at Quemar. The Master Assassin didn’t even possess the decency to look surprised. 

“I can assure you, Monsieur Dorian, that I have no idea what you—”

“Yes you do! Do not feign ignorance with me Quemar, you know exactly of whom I speak.”

Eva frowned, glancing around the room. _I’m so lost, is he talking about me or…?_ Not so much as one pair of eyes was on her, all blown wide at the fury incarnate that was Arno. 

Uncertain, Eva pointed to herself. _“Is it me?”_ She mouthed. 

“I think the Council will agree with me, Arno, when I say that that Templar brat—”

Arno roared, unsheathing his sword in one swift motion.

“I’m guessing it’s not me, then.” Eva muttered meekly.

Chaos erupted in one pregnant burst amongst the Council.

“Quemar, for once can’t you shut your—”

“Arno Dorian you _sheathe that sword at onc—_ ”

“We must stay focused on the task at hand! If we keep—”

“HEY!” 

The shriek rebounded twofold on the cold stone pillars. Heads whipped around— a comical look of shock painted on more than one face— to find Eva standing in the center of the hall, fists balled at her sides, chest heaving. 

_Don’t think about the fact that you just yelled at five deadly Assassins who could be your only hope of survival. Just keep going. Fuck. Yeah, just keep going._

“I hate to break up this absolute shitshow, but I’m still over here, I’m _still_ from the future, _you_ still need to find and kill La Bète, and _I_ still need by backpack full of futuristic thingies to prove to you that I am, in fact, _from the fucking future_.”

_Thingies? Come onnnnn Eva._

For the ten varying layers of shock on each of their faces (it was a tie between Trenet’s and Arno’s for the most hysterical, she decided), Eva had to admit that she was impressed with the swiftness of their recovery. Ten blinks and a shake of the head later, Madame Trenet had recomposed herself into the picture of dignity, shoulders rigidly sliding back and hands clasping before her neatly.

“If you claim that this… satchel…”

“Backpack,” Eva mumbled softly.

“…of yours contains evidence of your claims, we shall see it retrieved. Monsieur Dorian, what were your findings concerning your investigations on the whereabouts of La Bète?”

The almost imperceptible jolt told Eva that Arno had not yet recovered completely from the stunned trauma of her sudden outburst, nor Quemar’s jabs. Holding back a snort with fierce constraint, she watched as he shook his head slightly, blinking. 

“Uh… I- He’s returned to the same refuge I found him holed up in before, in the middle of the Saint-Jacques district.”

“Very well,” Trenet gave a curt nod. “Arno Dorian, this council charges you with the retrieval of Mademoiselle Eva’s satchel—”

“ _Backpack_ ,” Eva muttered.

“As well as the disposal of La Bète, if the opportunity arises.”

 _Wait— Did they_ just _say Arno’s name? As in, without me?_ Eva’s eyes widened, palms suddenly itchy with the onset of an anxious clamminess. _I- I don’t want to stay here. Not with these people— not with that man who attacked me! Not alone!_ Eva cast a swift look at Arno. As much as she mistrusted everyone she’d met ( _and would meet_ ), in a strange, Alice and Wonderland twist of events, she mistrusted him the least. _Liar_. Her mind hissed, and the reminded protest tasted sour on her tongue. He had promised she would be safe and she had believed him wholeheartedly, and then… The mental reverberation of the attack in the dark corridor still haunted her, jittered her nerves and set her breath to quicken. She had gone through so much… _so_ much… and it had succeeded in breaking her resolve.

But Arno, he… _Saviour. Protector._ These too he had been to her. These too he would remain, she was sure of it. But only if she was by his side. Only if she stayed close. 

Eva stepped forward boldly, hands clasped behind her back. “I’m going too.”

Curious that she felt safest with an Assassin. Curiouser still that that Assassin happened to be returning to the very place that had caused her so much harm… hunting the beast who had tortured her. 

“ _No_.” The four voices were one, uniform. Firm. 

“Yes.” Eva replied.

Then again, who was she to place a marker on what was crazy? After all, look where she was, who she was talking to. _I suppose I should just succumb to it. After all, who knows how sane I’ll be if I manage to ever get home?_

“It’s out of the question,” Guillaume said firmly.

Arno advanced on her suddenly, incredulity etched sharply across his face, in his eyes. “Are you _mad?_ I just got you out of there and now you want to go back in? You’re staying put right here.” His tone left no room for argument. Unfortunately, he had never been pitted against her mother’s silver tongue. Eva had, and the training made itself known.

“The contents of my bag contain technology far more advanced than anyone here is used to dealing with. You could set something off, or _break_ it.” There was a fair amount of bullshit heaped into her argument, but what they didn’t know only benefitted her the more. “What if my phone just inexplicably starts ringing and draws all the guards to your location. Are you gonna know how to turn it off? Even worse, what if you drop it. Oh there goes fucking everything if you do. Including my screen, which if it shatters I’ll become the next La Bète myself—”

“—What is a _phone_?” Guillaume wondered.

“Just how far advanced is this technology that you’re speaking of?” Interjected Master Vicar, who, Eva had noticed, had made no protest to her tagging along.

“About two hundred and twenty years, give or take.” Eva ignored the jarring effect, a bombshell, which windswept the room in a ferocious gale. The disbelief in the Council’s murmurings were deaf to her ears. Even Arno’s astonished expression as his head whipped around did not phase her— _I never answered his question did I, about what year I’m from? Well… he sure as hell knows now…_ She had been blunt with them for a reason. Shock always had its benefits, including the power to sway a person’s will. “Besides,” she interjected. “What better way to catch La Bète than to dangle what he wants most right in front of his ugly face.” Eva swallowed, fighting the spinning, drowning feeling which plagued her, the protesting terror— common sense, most likely— which beat at her firm resolve. “Me.”

Master Vicar, with round eyes and her head in her hand, smiled weakly. “I like her,” She nudged Quemar. “I say she goes.”

“Absolutely not!” The older Assassin spluttered, eyes still trained glassily on Eva.

Meanwhile Guillaume, a look of wonder limpid upon his features, was nodding slowly as he leaned sideways. “Master Trenet, I believe this young woman makes a few fine points.” He whispered. 

“This is suicide,” Arno hissed.

Chin balanced on spindly, interlocked fingers, Trenet’s face was a mask, her stoney features relinquishing nothing. Finally she looked up, casting Quemar a hard look which seemed to convey something unspoken between the two. Eventually he relented, breaking her gaze and nodding once. Beside him, Vicar beamed. 

“Very well. Mademoiselle Eva, you many accompany Arno on this task—”

“—You have _got_ to be joking—” Arno growled.

“—must abide by his every command. We ask that you assist in the safe retrieval of your satchel, but remain as far from harms way as you can manage. As opportunistic as a it would seem, using you as bait to lure one of the most dangerous men in France in for the kill is not something we  wish to pursue.”

Eva nodded vigorously, ignoring the shiver that electrocuted her from her heels to the base of her prickling neck. 

“I’m not going through with this,” Arno protested, movements sharp as he paced. 

“It is the Council’s decree—”

“She’ll _die!_ ” Arno shouted, throwing a hand in Eva’s direction. “She _already_ nearly died! I watched for days, saw the aftermath of what the Dog did to her…” He shook his head, coming to stand before the Council. “She will slow me down. Put the mission in jeopardy. And—” He glanced back, took in Eva’s gaping mouth and saucer-like stare before lowering his voice. “If she’s recaptured, I have no doubt that she will meet her end.”

“The Council had decided.” Trenet stated, the words heavy as stones. “She will accompany you. Surely an Assassin of your prowess will be able to handle such a mission.”

Arno bristled, shoulders tense, and when he spun on his heel Eva glimpsed the hard set of his jaw before he was stalking from the room icily. Shooting the Council a panicked look, Eva dashed off after him, catching up only as Arno cleared the final stone step of the staircase. 

“Hey.” Eva called, Arno’s pace causing her to have to jog beside him despite their shared height. She was blatantly ignored. 

“ _Hey_.”

It was like she wasn’t even there, though Eva’s sharp eyes noticed the deepening ravine between his pinched brows. 

“Arno can you— Jesus _Christ_.” She huffed, “Slow down please?”

He didn’t of course, sending a young Assassin scampering out of the way. Something told Eva the look on his face wasn’t the friendliest at the moment…

“So why aren’t they as scary as you, the other Assassins I mean?” She called, resuming her awkward half jog beside him. “Because I was looking around and you definitely take the cake for—”

Arno whirled suddenly, tailcoats sailing out behind him as he advanced on her with a glower furious enough cause Eva to yelp pitifully. They had turned into an empty corridor, and stumbling backwards clumsily her back hit the wall with a loud, echoing smack. 

“ _Oof!_ ” She grunted. 

“Listen closely,” Arno hissed, face only inches from her own. The look of rage in his eyes froze her immobile. “Because I don’t have time for this bullshite the Council seems so fond of. I 

can’t protect you forever out there. My focus will be split between you and La Bète, and mark my words there will come a time when you’ll be on your own, with nothing but what skills you have for protection.” Arno pulled away, ripping a hand through his hair, snagging it partially from its ribbon. “You sure as hell can’t climb,” he spat, advancing on Eva again, “can barely keep up with me as it is, and are three quarters more a fool than I initially believed. You brought this upon yourself. Remember that.” Arno disappeared then, mouth snapping shut into a frustrated grimace as he stalked down the hall and out of sight. 

In the silence that followed Eva gasped. And gasped again. Her breathes came in loud, awful pants of shock, but even as the reality of what had just transpired set in she fought to push the tears back, refusing to let them well in the crooks of her eyes. Resting her head against the cold cavern wall, for the millionth time that day wished she could go home. 

* * *

  Eva shut herself in the room she’d woken up in that morning, throwing herself on the bed face first with an agonised groan. How had she managed to screw things up even more than they’d already been? Had she walked under a ladder or smashed a mirror back in 2015 to deserve such horrible luck, or did the Big Man upstairs just hate her that much?

“All of the above.” She moaned, the words muffled by the mattress. 

Arno had been nonexistent since he’d stormed off, not that she’d given much effort into looking. A good ten of the fifteen minutes it took her to get back to the Cafe went into figuring out how to do just that. She would be the first to admit that her and directions weren’t exactly a match made in heaven… Eva sighed, rolling over and grabbing pillow to hug to her chest. No, Arno could stay sulking in whatever secret passage or hidden underground sanctuary he’d holed himself up in. She had no desire to confront him after how he’d yelled at her. Not that it wasn’t valid. That, Eva thought, was what stung the most. She’d put him a bad situation. An awful, difficult situation, where her life dangled pitifully with nothing but his skill to keep it afloat. It was selfish. It was ungrateful, after all he’d done to keep her alive the _first_ time. And the worst part was that she was aware of it. Had made the decision to press the Council into allowing her to come with that knowledge tucked securely in the back of her mind. She didn’t even regret it. Suddenly drenched in an overwhelming sense of guilt, Eva forced herself to sit up, pushing the mire of self-reproof aside as she rose and began to pace. 

“New topic, new topic, think of something else.” She murmured, sidestepping a gorgeously ornate chair, palms cupping her elbows. Ironically enough, the “something else” that swam to mind was that of the servant girl she’d run into on her way back into the Cafe. Young, with big brown eyes and hair of a mousy nature to match, the poor thing had bumped right into Eva on her way down the staircase, arms full of bed linens. Sure she’d apologised, but the horrified scream that had twittered out of her throat had had Eva nearly vaulting the banister and out the door like a shot. _She looked at me like I was a monster._ Eva thought, replacing in her minds eye how the girl had scurried down the stairs and through a yawning archway, not even pausing to retrieve the sheet she’d dropped on her mad descent. _I remember her. She was there, when Arno brought me in. She helped heal me._ Which meant, of course, that whoever she was, the girl had bore witness to her _super_ -annoying, _super_ -impossible powers of melting everything and anything ( _or anyone_ ) she touched. _She probably thinks I’m a demon or something. I mean jeez, I know I would if our places were switched._

Eva shut her eyes, groaning and letting herself fall into a chair, head collapsing into her hands. 

Her? A demon? How ridiculous. She was too much of a klutz for such a title.

Eva let herself flop lazily into a chair. “I really am fucked up, aren’t I?”

_A demon…_

When she opened her eyes the first thing they saw was the dull brassy gleam of the doorknob. Eva’ frowned, watching the incessant flicker of the candles she’d struggled to light wink back at her wittingly in the reflection of the handle. The minuscule flames danced, lapping at the air in a way that made them twist and distort, casting the knob in a twitching veil of fiery amber. 

 _The fire— that’s it. That’s it—_ “That’s it!”

Eva rocketed to her feet so fast a blackness rushed over her vision, causing her to sway where she stood. Staggering across the room, she swallowed thickly, heart beating a swelling rhythm into her throat and sending her tripping gracelessly into the door in her excitement. Falling to her knees, Eva clasped the doorknob between clammy palms, fingers trembling as they intertwined over the cool metal. Licking her lips, she blew a strand of hair from her eyes annoyedly, squeezing the metal between her hands anxiously. In her haste to reach the door she’d stubbed her toe twice, once on a chair leg, another on a particularly heavy wooden chest. For all her sudden excitement, Eva could hardly detect her foot’s smarting. Her breath came quickly, an an excited flutter that rushed from her nostrils that mimicked the rapid _thumpa-thump_ of her heart. 

These powers of hers, however impossible, were _there_ nonetheless. She’d felt them surging through her more than once, the fire working in her core, the steam stirring in swaths of translucent ash from skin slick with sweat and fever. Now the heat rested, dormant, somewhere inside her. Just waiting to be woken. _If I can turn it off, I sure as hell can turn it on… right?_

Eva closed her eyes, shoulders setting as she exhaled noisy. Her grip on the doorknob tightened to the point that her fingers ached. _Ok girl, you can do this. Think hot, think hot… A campfire, steam from a boiling pot, um, lava…?_ Even as the images rushed past her mind’s eye, Eva felt the lukewarm brass against her skin, the ache in her palms as she squeezed it tightly, and knew that it wasn’t going to work. Her stubbornness shrieked in protest, and Eva grit her teeth, feeling the stirrings of frustration as she forced herself to slow down— to visualise the heat, the fire. After ten minutes of embittered meditation Eva finally broke free from her trance, relinquishing her grip on the door with a ragged gasp, as if she’d been drowning and had only just broken through the surface. Her muscles screamed, aching from being cramped for so long, but bitterly she ignored them, propping herself back on her hands, eyes narrowed crisply upon the doorknob. 

“ _Ugh,_ ” Eva moaned, finally breaking her staring contest with the door and letting her head fall back. “I would literally trade all the expensive shit in the room for Professor X to materialise here right now. I mean, I freakin’ belong in that one scene of First Class where all the mutants have no idea what the actual fuck they’re doing.” The only difference was, those kids had had a super brainy, super patient teacher there to guide them along. _Me? I have a household full of people who are afraid of me and an Assassin who’s ready to murder me._

Eva chuckled hollowly. “It’s just me, myself, and I… which means I’m _screwed_.”

The frustration had grown, broiling in her like a persistent, nagging thorn. She felt it there, perched like a gargoyle over her, ever watchful of her failed progress. “Honestly I didn’t really expect it to work,” Eva angrily muttered, placing a hand on the knob and sagging into it tiredly, “but a _little_ progress wouldn’t of hurt.” 

Perhaps she’d been wrong, then, to think that she could control it. It could be that the fire was just that, a fire— wild and chaotic and unyielding to anyone. _But you controlled it,_ a voice persisted in the back of her head. _You made it go away, back when your fever nearly killed you. You and Arno._ Eva’s spine went rigid at the thought of the Assassin. _Had she?_ She had been so delirious, her body wracked with a pain so great she’d mourned her rebirth into consciousness with every stuttered breath. _Had_ she controlled it? Had Arno really helped? Eva recoiled at the idea, temper flaring. Even there, ensnared in the grip of a fire burning from the inside out— a fire that should have even inconceivable— he had aided her. Had succeeded in helping her put a muzzle on something so much a part of her that it was a mere reflex, refusing to be controlled. Eva ground her teeth tightly together, fingers snarling around the doorknob furiously. Could she do nothing for herself? Was she really as helpless as she appeared?

 _Pitiful. You’re pitiful. And to think that servant girl is afraid of you._ The irony nearly caused her rage to explode. _Even Arno is avoiding you now._ Her frustration had surmounted all reason. With a heated, jagged movement Eva sat up, wrenching her hand from where it had convulsed bitterly around the doorknob. It came away with a hiss and the acrid scent of thawed metal. 

A mixture of confused surprise caused Eva to fall backwards, shock plain on her face. Scrambling back another pace on shaking hands, she watched the doorknob glow, the warm amber now ringed by a writhing, white hot indigo. The knob glowed brilliantly, golden with the heat it’d absorbed, and Eva felt a shaky gasp slip from her throat to shatter the still air. Her eyes never left the metal’s blushing glow. The proof that it _was_ possible. It could be done.

And she’d done it. 

All at once Eva collapsed in a fit of delighted giggles, head thrown back and stomach convulsing sharply as she howled with unstoppable, incredulous laughter. “I can’t believe I did it,” she cackled, and double pumped her fists skyward. “I really did it. Hell yeah!”

A soft knock at the door did little to hinder her celebration, and wiping her streaming eyes Eva let out a shaky “it’s open”.

In the breath of a second she realised her mistake, eyes widening in horror. “No— WAIT!”

The strangulated cry of pain that ripped through the air was enough to have Eva scrambling to her feet in a frenzy, fright and panic and dread marrying into a potent drug that numbed her veins. As quickly as the scream had begun it died, and without hesitation Eva wrenched the door open. She hadn’t known who she’d been expecting to see on the other side, but the face that greeted her nearly had her slamming the door in his face and locking it tight.  

_The boy from before, the one who attacked me—_

He stood hunched in the doorway, eyes wide and teeth grit, white knuckles clutching tightly at the wrist of a hand which had blossomed to an ugly, blotchy red. The doorknob hissed warmly against her palm, and relinquishing her grip on it Eva darted forward, forcing herself to act through her shock. Grabbing the boy’s shirt she hauled him forward into the room, pushing him towards the closest chair. He complied easily enough, though she suspected this was only because the sheer amount of shock and pain coursing through his adrenaline flushed veins was enough to stupefy an elephant. Eva what are you doing? 

_This is a bad idea._

Her senses were screaming, her gut knotted in violent protest, but when Eva turned to look at the boy that had collapsed haphazardly into the chair all she saw was Emmett. _Riley_. They looked to be about the same age as him, after all, and she had helped those two idiots out of surfing wrecks more often than she cared to remember. 

“Uh— Uh, wait here, I’ll be right back—”

The boy gave her a look. _I’m a little too preoccupied to move,_ it read, and Eva felt a blush heat her cheeks. 

“Uh ok, ok—” She could fix this… only… what did you do for someone who’d been burned in the seventeenth century? Her eyes found the answer, sweeping across the room, past the fireplace to fixate themselves on the bathtub beside it. Vaulting a chest, Eva clambered over to it, fingers splashing into the cool water. It was tinged a murky maroon color, and withdrawing her hand rapidly Eva shuddered at the implication. They must have used the water to clean her wounds. Luckily enough, whoever was in charge of draining it hadn’t gotten around it it. Luckier still, the water was chilly. Whirling around, Eva pointed a finger at the boy, who blinked back at her dubiously. 

“You, come dunk your hand in the bathtub.”

An argument about bloody bathwater and fifteen minutes later had Eva perched on the chair across from the boy, who’s hand was wrapped in some extra gauze she’d found beside the tub. The silence was awkward, and rigidly Eva wondered if Arno had ever gotten around to kicking his ass for scaring her so severely. She hoped not… this was punishment enough. 

“I’m… _really_ sorry.” Eva mumbled guiltily, unable to meet his eyes. “I was just practicing to see if I could— uh, well, I did but then y-you knocked and I didn’t think— Um—” 

_Wow, articulate. Someone call Harvard._

The boy shifted, kicking his long legs up onto another chair laxly as he leaned back, surveying her with a mirthful, calculating stare. The side of his mouth quirked upwards and suddenly Eva was facing down a crooked, playful grin. 

“You know, for someone who didn’t even get hurt you’re doing an awfully impressive amount of panicking.”

Eva opened her mouth. Closed it. Sagged. 

_Dear God, don’t tell me he’s just as sassy as Arno, I don’t think I can handle it._

“You— does it hurt thought? Are you feeling alright? It was so red— I feel really bad—” 

The boy rolled his eyes dramatically, pretending to examine his burnt palm. “No not at all. Not in the slightest. I’m ready for round two.”

_Yep, just as sassy as Arno._

Eva deadpanned, slumping into her chair and propping her head in her hand. He really couldn’t be any older than twenty, with a gangly body that still needed to be grown into and hair the color of sand. His face was kind though, blue eyes kinder still. There was a playfulness that resided in them, a coltish youthfulness that reminded Eva more than ever of her friends back home. Her heart panged mournfully. 

“So you’re okay then? The water helped? I know it was nasty but I really think it was a good idea to… What are you staring at?”

His eyes were on her, big and blue as sky, searching. After a moment of silence he looked away, grinned, and crossed his legs. 

“Name’s Alexander. Hate it. You can call me Alex.”

Eva blinked, taken aback at his casualness. It was as if he’d known her for years. 

“Eva…” She managed. 

Alex’s feet hit the floor as he leaned forward, still grinning. “I know.”

“You know,” She echoed sceptically, arching a brow. “Are you referring to when you attacked me down in the—”

“ _Attacked?_ ” Alex was incredulous. “I was rescuing you!”

Eva snorted. “From what?”

Alex leaned as far forward as he could, casting a careful glance over his shoulder. “From the very man who puts the ‘ _ass’_ in Assassin, of course.” He winked, his chuckles eventually crescendoing into full blown laughter at Eva’s gape mouthed disorientation.

“ _What the fuck?_ ” Eva whispered hoarsely, causing Alex to laugh louder.

“Your face right now is priceless, I wish I had a portrait of it.” Alex snickered. 

“What you need is a camera,” Eva muttered. Immediately Alex sat forward, the laughter dying on his lips. 

“So it’s true then. You really are—”

“—From the future?” It was Eva’s turn to smirk. “Spooky isn’t it?”

Alex’s eyes held a certain awed wonder that Eva had slowly begun growing accustomed to. “No, not at all. Fascinating.”

“ _Fascinating?_ You do realize that I could _actually_ know when and how you died, right? That doesn’t freak you out?”

The grin was back. Alex cradled his injured hand in his lap, biting his lip. “Go ahead then, how do I die?”

Eva could have face-palmed. She’d been being hypothetical. “Uh… Your burnt hand falls off and… you die from infection.” She shrugged. “What a way to go.”

Alex froze, staring at her unsurely for a second before he broke down into a fit of laughter. Throwing his head back he clutched his stomach, his hilarity rebounding off the ceiling. “And you… die in… a _fire_ ,” he managed through gasps.

Eva just about died. The irony was too much for her, and suddenly the room was filled with the cacophonic racket of their combined hysterics. Any passerby who happened to be outside was sure to think that an animal was either fighting or dying (or both), and Eva could only imagine what the people downstairs must have been thinking. Slumped in their chairs, their chuckles refused to fade until tears were streaming down their faces. Sitting up as best she could, Eva brushed the wetness from her cheeks, grinning. She hadn’t laughed like that in a while, not since Emmett had bailed off his board during the last major storm swell and wiped out in a spectacular fashion. 

“How old are you?” She asked, relaxing into her chairs cushion.

Alex’s brow creased. “Eighteen, why?”

“You remind me of my friends back home. Except… not the Assassin part, y’know?”

“Oh, I’m not an Assassin. At least not yet,” he explained sheepishly. “I’m only in training… Arno’s my mentor.”

Eva snorted. “God bless.”

“He really isn’t all that bad, you know. Not saying that he isn’t a complete ass, because he is…”

Eva frowned, stare vacant as she relived her recent rescue. “No…” she sighed, “He isn’t, is he?”

“Just a bit fucked up is all.” Alex muttered.

 _Now what could he mean by that?_ Eva wondered, but intuition— something in haunt of Alex’s eyes— warned her not to ask.

The silence prevailed then, leaving the two in its comfort for more than a few minutes before Alex opened his mouth, hesitated, obviously working up to something. With a cough he blurted awkwardly: “how can you control heat?”

Eva started, turning her head so that she could stare at him. “I…” She shook her head. “Not very well, honestly.”

“I’d disagree with that.” He protested, waving his wrapped hand. 

Eva huffed a weak laugh. “I… I don’t have any clue, honestly. I’ve been able to do it ever since I woke up at Versailles…” She flexed her fingers, eyes boring into their pads. “La Bète—”

“It’s why he captured you. No?”

Eva shrugged. “I guess. I… I really don’t know… But I’ve been giving it some thought, and I’m pretty sure the source of my abilities comes from this.” Looping a finger around her necklace’s chain, Eva hoisted it so that the medallion dangled innocently between them. “I think it’s how I got here too. There’s something magical about it, I swear.”

Alex had leaned forward, squinting at the spinning disk. “That? That little thing?” He frowned. “You sure?”

“I have no reason not to be.”  
Alex nodded, paused, his frown deepening. 

“It’s a family heirloom,” Eva continued offhandedly, twirling the chain, “but right about now I wish my mom had never given—”

Suddenly Alex sat impossibly straight, eyes blazing with excitement. Scooting to the edge of his seat he sat forward. “What if you were to take it off?”

“I— Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that.

“What if you could still summon the heat— what if— what if you were automatically transported back to your time?” The fervor in Alex’s eyes danced furiously, boyish grin from ear to ear. Eva’s hand floated to the chain around her neck tentatively, fingertips brushing the metal. 

_What if he’s right?_

“Try it.” Alex pressed.

Could it really be that simple?

In one fluid motion she’d unclasped the chain, letting the necklace fall chunkily into her lap. Eva smiled unsurely up at Alex, the space between them tense with expectation. Then her throat slammed closed so abruptly that she croaked, hands flying to encircle her neck.

No, of course it couldn’t. 

“Eva?” Alex asked, smile dying on his lips. Eva’s mouth worked, fingers beginning to tremble as the she struggled to breath. Her efforts were all in vain. Her wide-blown eyes glazed over, body convulsing as it fought for air. 

“ _Eva?_ ” Alex repeated, voice shaky. 

Black was beginning to tinge her vision. Her eyes rolled up and stuck in the back of her skull as she tumbled from her chair, landing in a heap on the floor beside it. The medallion clattered beside her loudly. She could hardly see it, could barely make out Alex’s boots as he scrambled to his knees beside her. Everything was black. 

“Eva, _hold on!_ ”

She heard the call, felt someone hoisting her upwards, but what was there to hold on _to_? With one last tremor she fell into the black, and there it flickered, ensnaring her in a rapidly hastening film that reeled behind roving eyes. 

_“Told you to go before the tour. Don’t get lost nerd.”_

_“Courage my boy.”_

_“Démon.”_

_“You are in Paris. “No mistake, La Bête has been searching for you, woman.”_

_“Combien de puissance peut-tu résider dedans, je me demande?”_

_“Restez avec moi, on y est presque— Stay with me. You must keep awake.”_

_“Stay. Please. Siv ou— Siv—”_

_“Seventeen ninety-six.”_

_“I won’t hurt you. Ever. Not ever. You can trust me.”_

_“Arno…”_

 

She came awake with a wretched gasp, hand clutching tightly to her throat as each weak breath caught in her stinging lungs. Vaguely she was aware of her head resting on someone's leg, and turning it feebly Eva found Alex staring down at her with alarm staining his features and worry plagued deep in his cloudy blue gaze. 

“Are- are you alright? You just dropped, like you couldn’t breath all of a sudden and I—” He shuddered. “I put the necklace back on. That seemed to work.”

Eva’s hand flew to the medallion, gripping it so hard it dug into her palm. Her body was trembling and if she tried to stand, there was no doubt she’d come crashing down again twice as fast. 

“Well thanks.” Eva rasped, swallowing painfully. “Remind me to never fucking try that again.” 

Alex blew out a long breath, shoulders sagging. “Noted.”

They stayed like that for a while, simply because Eva didn’t think she was strong enough to stand, more less make it to the bed. 

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to die tomorrow.” She admitted into the quiet. “I haven’t managed to go a few hours at a time without something awful happening to me.”

Alex smiled softly. “Better get a good nights sleep then, no?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This was long in the making (like seriously, I was writing this in my college classes...), so I do really hope you like it so far. As of now, college has me swamped, so I'll be updating whenever I can! Thanks to everyone for checking this story out, and please leave a review if you liked it!


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